Artemis Files 0.5: Lexington by Bradley Warnes

December , 4283
     
    Glittering lights were cast across the sky, sprinkled as if a giant hand had thrown them asunder so all could admire such wondrous splendour. Blinking, he tried to count the many shades and variations in colour, but there were too many and he quickly gave up at the futility of trying to measure such a miracle. Familiar smells of mulled wine and scented pine trees streamed across his face, carried upon a winter breeze so chilling it hurt the eyes. If it were warmer, it might have been perfect lying under the stars to reflect on life and the beauty of winter.
    When an acrid smell of burning plastic, rubber, and flex wafted over him, he blinked in surprise. It was at odds to the surroundings, disjointed with the harmony of shining stars above. Mixed in to the aroma, ozone and oil caught his attention to break the spell of idle contemplation.
    Turning his head to the side, he felt the hard surface of gravel and rock digging into his face, mixed with wet slush and the cold press of ice. A blinding sign sparked to life, obscuring his vision of the stars above for a moment until the sign went dark again. Dragging a hand to his face, he felt it scrape along cobblestones to bring grit and iced-water to his face.
    Puzzled, he sat up and felt pain shoot through his left shoulder, running up the neck and into the base of his skull. Lightning flashed in his vision and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him back to the ground. Breathing deep and ignoring the frosty mist when he exhaled, he fought against rising nausea from the pit of his stomach.
    “Where am I?” He asked aloud, the voice as gravelly as the surface beneath his body.
    New aches and pains began assaulting him, and combined with everything else he just wanted to close his eyes to pretend it was a dream. His knee was skinned, the flesh cut open by gravel and oozing blood that was dark in the night. He didn’t know if that hurt more than the pain in his shoulder and head. Pulling the hem of his kilt aside to stop it from brushing over the graze, he absent-mindedly reached down to pull up the white socks.
    “Ye feckin gobshite! Ye killed me da!” A voice shouted in frustration. Her tone was dripping with anger and hate, the accent from the poorer parts of the city.
    Spinning his head around, he groaned when a new torrent of pain shot into the back of his skull. While his eyes took in the sight before him, awareness came back in a rush.
    It was carnage.
    An armoured limousine lay crumpled against a row of parked cars with the front third collapsed beneath the weight of a large delivery truck. The rear door of the limousine was hanging open, and on the other side he could make out ragged edges of metal and fractured armoured flexi-glass where the rear of the passenger section had been blown open. It was supposed to be armoured against all but the heaviest of anti-tank rounds, and with the smoke rising through the air from the torn open section, he wondered how they had gotten their hands on one.
    Bodies lay sprawled in what remained of the limousine. The woman’s evening gown stained with blood and the remnants of her partner’s body where he had thrown himself over her in protection from the blast. A quick glance showed they were both dead, the unreal angle of their heads and ripped open bodies confirming it. The driver of the limousine sat half inside the vehicle, pinned under the crushed remains of the engine compartment while his glass-splattered face registered shock at an intruding length of metal impaling the centre of his chest.
    But there was someone missing, he realised with the fog slow to clear from his mind.
    Ciara had been telling them about the pending visit in the morning by her father, Lord Andrew, the Duke of Exmouth. Her face glowed with pleasure while sharing that her father was in the system with his Armoured Cruiser and upset that he couldn’t make it down in time to join them at the ballet. Speaking in rapid bursts, she told