Dethroned 2 Page 4

  “I see.” As Seth tried to come up with something to respond with, a groan came from the floor on his left. It seemed that the soldier he’d crashed into when the grenades went off was still alive.

  Frederik noticed this as well, and proceeded to unholster his sidearm, chamber a round, and aimed to execute the man.

  “Wait!” Seth held up a hand. “Are any other personnel still alive?”

  “Possibly.” Frederik kept his weapon lazily pointed at the soldier. “I knocked out two on my way to the armory but had to put down the operator the Major left at the control room. If they're still alive, at least one might have a fatal concussion.”

  “Okay.” Seth sucked in a breath before letting the words blather out. “Check him for wounds, then tie him up. We need at least one survivor to tell them what happened here.” Part of him felt like it might’ve been the wrong call, but he also felt like if he could ensure a life was spared, he should do so.

  “As you wish.” Frederik holstered his weapon, and waved Victoria over. “I'll help restrain him once Anubis gets his update.”

  As the others went about their work, Seth let his head loll back so he could stare at the lights above. At this rate, we'll be sitting on a mountain of bodies before the year is out...

  * 11 *

  The rest of the operation went without a hitch. Within an hour of Frederik giving the all clear, a small fleet of heliplanes descended on the resupply base. By Richard’s estimation, there must’ve been around twenty to thirty Acian personnel loading the aircraft with just about anything that wasn’t bolted down – and many things that were.

  By the time he’d heard that there was a survivor, they’d already been sedated and dumped in the meeting room to sleep off their injuries. He wasn’t too happy that they were leaving anyone alive, but there were too many people around for him to try anything. Plus, he had no idea what the repercussions might be if he took the risk, so he put it out of his mind and got to work helping load the heliplanes.

  He spent most of the ride back to their base in western Siberia relaxing as if everything was right in the world. Even if the mission hadn’t gone quite according to plan, it’d been the most exhilarating thing he’d experienced since leaving the Anvil. Something about the firefight at the armory made him feel so alive. Maybe it was that he could die at any second that did it for him. Better yet, maybe he just missed killing. It could go either way.

  They touched down at base within a few hours, and everyone filed out to go their separate ways. Richard was half-way down the ramp, when he thought he heard Marcus say, “Hey, Ryker. You got a minute?”

  I guess the lie finally got to him. He did what he could to keep his expression impassive and kept walking toward the hangar’s exit.

  Marcus hadn’t been too thrilled when he’d covered for Richard about how the firefight got started. It was understandable, given what actually happened. But even still, Marcus had become a bit of a wet blanket over the last few months, constantly worrying and giving him looks without ever saying a word about it.

  Until now, apparently.

  Richard couldn’t really put a finger on what impulse drove him to break protocol and open fire at those soldiers outside the armory, but he was glad he did it. He and Marcus were in the middle of moving another crate out into the hall, when they’d showed up and shouted for them to stand down. Marcus had a look on his face that said they should comply, but Richard wasn’t having any of it.

  It wasn’t like he’d gone through some complex series of ‘what-if’s’ and threat assessment before landing on a best course of action. He’d simply acted. On the way to the showers, now that he had time to rationalize it, it occurred to him that there was no way they were getting out of there in anything short of mag-cuffs. And if there was something he could do to avoid that, it was worth taking the chance. In the end though, it didn’t matter – what was done, was done.

  Still, something tugged at him that lying to Frederik might not've been the best idea.

  Maybe Marc has a point. Richard stopped in his room to grab his towel and toiletries. I should probably fess up before it gets out anyway. And lying about something like this probably won’t earn me any points with the others.

  He went about his business in the shower and came up with how he was going to break the truth about how he and Marcus got pinned down. It would have to be during the debriefing. Jens would be grilling them about how everything went so wrong and how nearly all the staff ended up dead. When the time came to explain what happened at the armory, Richard would let Marcus speak up first, then jump in with a 'here's how it really happened'. Marcus would be an unfortunate accessory to his lie, but at least the truth would be out.

  Yeah. Yeah, that's how I'll do it. Richard was almost back to his room, when he passed Seth in the hall. Fuck it. I should just tell him now.

  “Hey, Seth.” Richard spun around.

  Seth stopped. “Hmm?”

  “There's something I need to tell you. It's about what happened outside the armory.”

  “Okay.” Seth gave him an appraising look. “Go ahead.”

  “I'm not sure what Marc or Frederik told you, but the soldiers outside the armory didn't just start firing on us.” He met Seth's gaze. “I fired the first shot.”

  Seth looked at him like he'd just added more shit to an already large pile – unsurprised, but more than a bit annoyed.

  “I see.” He looked to the ground. “I heard Frederik and Marcus talking after we got back. Marcus was upset about something, which I'm guessing was this. But here's what Frederik said to him, ‘Your first priority is to keep yourself alive. Then your squad. Then if anyone else can be spared, so be it.’ I may not agree with his thoughts on killing, but I'm definitely grateful he showed up when he did.”

  Here comes the but...

  He turned his eyes back to meet Richard's.

  “But, try to keep your shit under control. We've already racked up enough of a body count with the Anvil. Don't add to it unless you absolutely have to.”

  “Understood.” Richard thought about saying more, but what else needed to be said? He could stand there and make promises that might need to be broken just to assuage Seth’s fears, or he could make an honest effort to be better next time. He nodded to Seth. “Honestly, I didn’t expect you to take this so well.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Seth smirked. “But if you go rabid again, I won’t hesitate to put you down, Wolf.”

  He took the statement in stride with a laugh as they parted, but it definitely didn’t seem like something the man would normally say. Then again, this was the same guy who took on the Snatchers all by himself and subsequently killed all of them.

  Richard sprawled out on his bed as soon as he reached his quarters and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind wander. Some number of mental tangents later, his mind drifted to his sex life – or lack thereof. Then the worst realization that could’ve hit him did just that.

  He hadn’t thought about Lorianna since she died.

  Since he’d been forced to put a bullet in her head.

  It was hard to fathom how well he’d managed to avoid the topic, repressing it further and further. The deeper he dove into his memories of her, the worse the pressure got, threatening to shatter the brittle sense of normalcy he’d built over the last few months. Tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t believe he’d let it get this bad.

  That was it, wasn’t it?

  That was why he’d been acting the way he did.

  Richard wasn’t really the type of man to tackle his problems head on unless there was something he could do about it immediately. And since he couldn’t bring Lorianna back from the dead, he just shoved her aside. It all made sense now – the way he’d been acting, the way he kept seeking out anything at all to help him keep avoiding the topic.

  And then there was Shana...

  The pressure finally broke. It took a few seconds for his voice to catch up as his expression contorted into a
sob, but he managed to stifle his screams with a pillow before they got too loud. This type of raw deluge of emotion was best dealt with alone, and he couldn’t have someone coming to check on him.

  He allowed it to sweep him away, and somewhere in the next hour, he decided to make an honest effort to be better and work through anything troubling him. This bout alone was all the proof he needed that his mental state could easily turn him into a liability. And there was no way he was letting that happen.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Scythe in the Dark

  After almost a day, the wait had surpassed the point of agony. Scythe felt like he should’ve been in the room with Akachi, questioning the woman. It only made sense, since he’d been the one to bring her in. In the hours the Colonel spent dealing with the fallout brought on by the attack, Scythe could’ve gotten everything they needed from her. Whether intentional or otherwise, making a prisoner sweat rarely had any worthwhile effect.

  Surprisingly, he'd come to respect Akachi over the last few months. The man fit the mold of a seasoned leader, even if he leaned a bit too hard on those teaching moments of his. Even still, gravitas alone didn’t make someone an effective interrogator. Akachi was too deliberate to apply the right level of pressure without jumping off the cliff of masochism. Advanced interrogation wasn’t necessarily Scythe’s forte, but he’d dabbled enough to attain desirable results when called upon.

  It'd been a fine activity to distract him in between raids and conflicts with the other clans.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d brought his tools with him when he left home. Or rather, been forced to leave. The instruments had earned him countless troves of information, and it was a damned shame to think of them locked away in some storage crate, collecting dust along with the rest of his possessions. Such is the way of things with weapons of war, isn't it? Mothballed as soon as the conflict ends...

  “They got highborn where you're from?” Came a voice from the other side of the table.

  Scythe looked at the soldier, surprised to hear him speak. They’d spent so much time together – especially after the unfortunate incident at the dumpling shop – that a simple question came off as a sudden outburst.

  “What was that?”

  “Highborn. Do they have highborn on Mars?” asked the soldier, whose name Scythe now read as Ackerson.

  “If by that you're asking if the status of one's birth has a direct, cemented effect on one's social class, then no. We don't have highborn.” He squinted at the man ever so slightly. “Why do you ask?”

  “No, it's just- You carry yourself like highborn, and it got me wondering if Mars is the same as us.”

  Scythe uncrossed his legs and spun his chair to face the man. This had the potential to be the first reasonably intelligent conversation he'd had since arriving on Earth. “What spurred this on? You and yours have been attached to my shadow for the last three months, and the first time you speak is to ask if we have an equivalent of the nobility? Why not 'how did you survive', or 'what's it like living underground', or something similar?”

  “Well, you're here, aren't you? And I've seen images of the ship you rode in on. Figured things were fine enough over there.” Ackerson shrugged, and collapsed his tab. “We keep hearing about new protests and rallies happening all over the world every day. More and more people seem to want to dissolve the EGI and send things back to the way they were before the Collapse. Just got me thinking, is all.”

  “I see.” Scythe approved. “Well then, to answer your question more succinctly, Mars isn't without it's nepotism and privileged elite. Hell, I'm one of them. But there's no glass ceiling limiting how far one might rise if they're motivated enough. At least within your own clan.”

  “Clans, huh?” Ackerson gave a hearty chuckle. “What is this, the Wastes?”

  “It does sound silly when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?” Scythe looked towards the table and smiled. “They're a holdover from the corporate interests that took root once Earth’s initial colonies were deemed stable enough. When your Collapse began and the Initiative abandoned us, those marooned colonists banded together to survive the ensuing power vacuum. Eventually, three clans carved their way to the top, and then subsequently went to war with each other.”

  “So, there's war there, too?” Ackerson hmphed. “I guess people are gonna be people, no matter what planet you're on.”

  “Have there been conflicts on Earth, as well?” Scythe found his curiosity piqued. Everything he'd read to catch up to speed on the last sixty years of Earth's history seemed to pointedly ignore this fact.

  “A couple big ones. Minor skirmishes with the Wasters happen all the time. Can't say I blame 'em, either.”

  “How do you mean? And do you mean to tell me that there are people who live outside the cities?”

  “Oh, plenty. The Wasters even have towns, and I guess, a city of their own. The EGI ignores them so long as they stay out of our territory.”

  “And the conflicts? How did they start?”

  “Far as REC-2 goes, the media claimed that they attacked a group of our folks who showed up lookin’ to trade for steel or whatever else they might've scavenged.” Ackerson looked off to the side. “But I wouldn't be surprised if some asshole trying to make a name for themselves flew in, tried to take their shit by force, and they responded in kind. Brass just used it as an easy way to spark up a war is my guess.”

  He looked back at Scythe. “Would surprise me even less if it came to that with the opposition groups sooner or later.”

  “Oh?” Scythe shook his head, coming back to the conversation. He'd just started reveling in what it'd be like to ride a heliplane off to war in the open air, and just how glorious that would be.

  “Did you not notice how much of a shithole the lower district was this morning?” Ackerson gave him a pitying look. “I'd ask if you don't get out much, but I already know the answer to that.”

  “No,” Scythe narrowed his eyes. “I was focused on the clinic that was on fire, and the woman we brought in.”

  “Good point but let me enlighten you.” Ackerson leaned forward. “Everyone treats the lowborn like trash. And while some might be trash, most aren’t. The way I see it, people can only take so much shit before someone decides to throw it back. And when it happens, it's gonna be big.”

  Revolution. It was a type of conflict Scythe had only read about. The genesis of the Martian clans and their power struggles paled when compared to something like a revolution. With a revolution, there was purpose. There was a reason behind the fighting – at least some of the time. Not that he needed one, anyway. War and its horrors were what forged him into the beautiful creature he was today. Far be it for him to turn from the call when the time came.

  Scythe snapped back to reality once more. He felt embarrassed that Ackerson was left there watching him silently reminisce. He probably looked like he was reliving his first kiss with his first love – which wasn't far from the truth.

  “You almost sound like you’re not sure which side you’re on.” Scythe cracked a smile at him.

  Ackerson gestured at his uniform. “I’m already committed, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t have a point. You trying to tell me that doesn’t make sense to you? Are there no poor folks on Mars?”

  “As compared to whom? There are certainly those lacking in ambition, but since labor is the resource we lack the most, the Tribunal does what it can to keep people working effectively. My father always used to say that we don’t have the luxury of allowing people to become downtrodden.”

  Ackerson furrowed his brow, seemingly annoyed that he couldn’t poke any holes in Scythe’s logic. “What about prisoners? From war or whatever, what do you do about them?”

  “Prisoners of war are treated as fairly as possible. Most of the time.” Scythe glanced to the ceiling. “And convicts are sent to the labor camps along with any new arrivals. All are granted full rights after completing their sentence, however.”


  “New arrivals-” Ackerson cut his question short as Colonel Akachi entered the room. He shot to his feet and saluted, while Scythe remained sitting and looked at the officer expectantly. Akachi had the look of a man who’d wasted hours running in place, only to find that he could’ve been charging ahead from the very start.

  “So?” Scythe gave him a bland look.

  Akachi drew his lips into a line. “What did you say to her when you brought her in? She started apologizing for always leaving her terminal unlocked, among other things, as soon as I sat down.”

  “I've no idea what you're talking about.” Scythe shrugged, trying to convey honesty. “Did she give you anything useful?”

  “She didn't have much to say outside of day to day operations, but she might've given us a lead. It's going to take some time to follow through on it, though.”

  “Sir?” Ackerson appeared puzzled.

  Akachi flicked open his tab. “Corporal Joseph mentioned an incident from last year involving some Lt. Commander by the name of Seth Renquist. The problem is, he recently severed his tenure with the IOD.”

  “Oh.” Ackerson glanced to the floor. “Shit.”

  Scythe was at a loss. “And that means what for us?”

  “It means his records are sealed.” Akachi sucked at his teeth. “And it's going to take some time to get approval so they can be unsealed.”

  “Ah.” Scythe rocked back in his chair. “I see. What does that mean for us in the meantime?”

  Akachi was about to answer, when a soldier burst into the room. The woman heaved like she'd come at a dead sprint. “Sir! There's been another attack!”

  “Where? In the city?” The Colonel did a poor job of hiding his anger.

  “No,” The soldier tried to catch her breath. “Eastern Sphere Resupply Three, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose that answers that question.” Scythe lazily pulled himself to his feet. “Shall we be off, then?”

  * 12 *

  The resupply base appeared, without a doubt, about as bland as Scythe expected. The garage he now stood in had the look of a room long forgotten, just with all the trappings removed. Dust outlines where crates, vehicles, and other fixtures once stood spotted the floor like blocks on a checkerboard. The scuffs and footprints of heavy objects being moved led to and from the massive bay doors they'd entered through.