Sons of the Lion

by Jason Cordova

  Zion sighed. If his anger kept growing at its current rate, he was going to have a difficult time looking the former President of Liberia in the face the next time they met without punching the bastard. Like he needed to create a bigger diplomatic incident than the one which was already looming over their heads after this fiasco.

  On second thought, he corrected as he rounded a large cluster of empty boxes and found a CASPer standing guard over a darkened corner, if they lump it all into one punishment, maybe I should just go ahead and punch the asshole. I could claim Guild Law and request a trial through them. That…might get me out of serving prison time on Earth, at least. The idea made him feel slightly better.

  “Corporal,” Zion announced himself as he drew closer. The CASPer unit took a step back and the overhead light illuminated the corner better. Zion slowed, then stopped as he saw a group of four young children huddled there. At their feet were some of the prepackaged MREs the Korps used while on deployment. One or two had already had their covers torn open and the kids were eating them cold. All were clearly malnourished. Zion stopped dead in his tracks, stunned.

  “What the hell?”

  “Bass, I didn’t know what else to do,” Corporal Dayo proclaimed, his voice shaky over the pinplant. He waved one of his CASPer’s arms at the foursome. “They were cold and hungry. I didn’t…I just…well, look at them!”

  “It’s okay, Corporal,” Zion replied, thinking fast. He needed to get control of the situation before Dayo went out and administered justice on his own. “Good idea, making sure they stay in a corner where it’s warmer. I didn’t notice how cold it was outside when we first got here. Since I’m here, why don’t you go over to Section Eight and find some of the winter clothing we have stored. Those boxes still looked sealed when I passed by them earlier.”

  “Ye—yes bass,” the corporal stammered slightly and moved his CASPer away, leaving Zion alone with the four children for the moment. He waited until the corporal was out of earshot before questioning the children.

  Zion tried English first. “You understand me?” All four children—three boys and a girl, he discerned after a brief inspection—nodded. Zion sighed in relief. He didn’t speak the mashup up of English and Liberian which dominated the country, and he highly doubted the kids understood French, though there always was a slim possibility since it was a popular language with the Christian missionaries who ran the schools out in the bush. He continued slowly, in plain English. “Okay. You’re not in trouble…well, not in trouble yet. But I need you to answer some questions. Be honest and don’t lie to me, and I’ll let you eat all you want and give you clothes. Agreed?”

  He wasn’t about to deny these kids food, but he also understood how their minds worked. Food was one hell of a motivator. Slowly, the children nodded their heads. Zion took a deep breath and stomped down hard on the anger boiling within. He knew who these kids likely worked for and why they had been sent back after everyone in Monrovia undoubtedly knew the Korps had returned to Earth. It pissed him off to an extent he hadn’t felt in about three minutes.

  Zion really needed to watch his blood pressure. A coronary would not be the way to go, not as a young and relatively healthy mercenary.

  “Who sent you in to steal from the Korps?” he asked. All four children stared at him with terrified expressions. Zion frowned slightly. He needed confirmation of his suspicions before he could execute Guild Law and arrest the crime lord on its behalf. There could be no doubt. The children remained silent, so he tried a different tactic. “Have you ever wanted to be a mercenary? Fight for the colonel and the Korps?”

  Only the little girl nodded. The three boys refused to budge, reminding Zion of frightened rabbits when cornered. His only hope would be the girl. So be it. He’d dealt with worse situations in his life, though he couldn’t think of any at the moment.

  “Bass?” Corporal Dayo’s voice interrupted his brief interrogation. Zion looked over his shoulder and saw the corporal had decided to bring the entire wooden box filled with supplies, instead of trying to dig through them and pull out packets individually. “There are sweaters in here, bass. Also some MREs. The good ones though, not the sh—ken, stuff the government tried to sell us.”

  “Good work, Corporal. Keep an eye out and watch my back for a moment.”

  “Got it, bass.”

  Zion looked at the three boys and tried to give them a friendly look. “That box has sweaters and MREs. Clothes and food. You can take them with you if you want, no questions asked. These MREs are the good ones. Those you had with you when the corporal…ah, found you taste bad cold. The good ones taste fine without being heated. You can have the sweaters, too. Last night it got pretty cold, didn’t it? Go ahead and take one or two for each of you.”

  The boys moved to the box, warily watching the CASPer looming on the other side and reached into the container. When the boys took two sweaters each instead of one, Zion didn’t say anything. He merely watched as they pulled the sweaters on, doubling up before they began to snag as many MREs each as they could. Once they were full-up, they looked at Zion expectantly.

  “Remember, the Korps are here for Liberia,” Zion told them. “You don’t need to steal from the Korps. If you ask, we will help. Understand?”

  The three nodded, slowly, their eyes never leaving the CASPer standing watch. Zion sighed. The boys wouldn’t be able to help him, not at all. They were either too afraid of what would happen to them if they did, or they didn’t know who sent them in, only the promise of food was too alluring to pass up. It was just one of those things which made Zion long for Philadelphia. While the city had its sore spots, even the worst neighborhoods in the City of Brotherly Love were better than the majority of what he’d seen in Liberia and the surrounding countries.

  “What about you?” he asked the girl. “Sweater?”

  “The big bass gives food and clothes to kids, too,” she retorted, still eyeing him nervously. It was clear to him there was very little trust in the girl’s mind. He couldn’t blame her, not really. “Then he take everything…everything.”

  Zion gritted his teeth and tried not to snarl. “I promise not to…take anything if you want a sweater or two, or even food. Please? It’s yours. I just need to know who the boss—your bass—is.”

  She stood up slowly and Zion suddenly realized she was older than the three boys by a couple of years. He had expected a girl of ten or so, but the girl standing before him was a tiny, malnourished teenager at least. The three younger boys continued to watch her as she slowly walked to the box, grabbed some of the smaller sweaters, and pulled them on. Bundling up, she ignored the food before moving back to the corner. She sat down on the warehouse floor and continued to eat the cold MREs which had already been opened.

  “You don’t want the ones over there?” Zion asked, mildly surprised. She shook her head.

  “Don’t want to waste these,” she replied in a quiet voice and continued to dig her fingers into the MRE packet, pulling out what looked like sweet and sour pork and popping a piece into her mouth. Her eyes never left Zion, though, even while eating. Not sure what else to do, Zion sat down across from her. He pulled his knees to his chest and simply waited until the girl was ready to talk.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her after she had finished off the first MRE packet and started on a second.

  “Sunshine,” she responded around a mouthful of what looked like Salisbury steak or simply a hamburger patty smeared with brown gravy. Zion couldn’t be certain.

  “That’s different,” Zion said before checking himself. His mother had named him “Zion,” after all. Who was he to criticize anybody else’s name?

  “The major general bass man gave it to me,” Sunshine replied, chewing her food noisily as she continued to eye him. Her eyes were unusually colored, green with smatterings of brown. Her hair had a hint of red in it, which confused him a little. It suggested her family was from out in the bush somewhere east, but it didn’t match her accent or
personality. Her skin was as dark as his, yet there were enough differences in her face to suggest she was not even from Liberia. If this were the case, then where had she come from? Ghana, perhaps?

  “The major general?” Zion asked, suddenly hopeful, as a piece of the puzzle was revealed as well as where it could possibly fit. There were only a few of the self-stylized “generals” who roamed the streets of Monrovia with their little gangs. They wanted to be warlords like those of old, but had only managed to succeed at petty theft, protection rackets, and running prostitution rings. Basically, small men with big dreams, he realized as a plan to crush them came to mind.

  Sunshine nodded. “Major General Sparkles gave me my name. He say I remind him of a bright day.”

  Armed with a form of identification now, Zion’s pinplants began a search for any information on one Major General Sparkles. As absurd as the name was, he’d seen and read worse. Unlike some of the others in the Korps, Zion had a college education, which meant at some point he’d learned to do his own research outside of the classroom. The history of his parent’s homeland had been something he’d been interested in during his first year of college, when it quickly became apparent his upbringing was far different than the typical Liberian home.

  He found Major General Sparkles quickly enough. The police department of Monrovia had an extensive list of crimes he was accused of but, unsurprisingly, no charges had ever been filed. Nobody wanted to testify against him, and nothing ever seemed to stick. He was the worst sort of street scum, a degenerate who preyed upon the weak and young to do his bidding, using their malleable minds to commit heinous acts while he kept his hands clean. Keeping control of his “soldiers” through various drugs, the major general was the kind of man Mulbah and the Korps would gladly stomp out of existence.

  Zion swallowed, hard. His throat felt tight. His voice was raspy as his tumultuous emotions caused bile to rise up into his throat. He’d never felt anything like this before. This was beyond pain, beyond anger. It was pure, righteous rage. It took him multiple attempts to clear his throat before he could speak.

  “3rd Company, meet in the briefing room, one hour. We have a mission.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  SOGA HQ, Sao Paolo, Brazil District, Earth

  “Are you certain about this?” General Peepo asked her chief of staff as she set the slate down on the conference room table.

  “Yes, General,” Beeko said, nodding. Peepo’s chief of staff was very excited. “Our models suggest that with a little nudging, we can encourage more Humans to take the VOWS and then they would be willing to work for us. This is most exciting.”

  “Indeed,” Peepo nodded, though she was not entirely convinced. “Offer higher pay for those who would take the VOWS. Rewards, sweets, whatever motivates them. We need humanity on our side if we truly wish to rule this world. If the population of this planet obeys us, then the Horsemen will have nothing worth coming back to. This will crush their spirits and their will to fight.”

  “Yes, General,” Beeko nodded. “One final note: Sansar Enkh has arrived safely at Capitol Planet and is currently being held in the cells below the Mercenary Guild. Her trial is set to commence soon.”

  “Good,” Peepo nodded, pleased. “Ensure the execution takes place soon after.”

  While not everything was going according to the plan, this was one area she had been most worried about. Getting Sansar Enkh in front of the Mercenary Guild council for judgement was tantamount to her plan’s success, as the only way to ensure the total ruination of the Four Horsemen and to bring Earth to heel was through a guilty conviction of at least one of the Horsemen. She knew that was already set. Now it was only a matter of time.

  “Very good, indeed.”

  After Captain Beeko left the office, Peepo heard a slight rustling behind her. Instead of looking around, she merely waited for the visitor to reveal itself. It was one thing to deal with a Grimm via comms, but quite another in person. She would never let the alien know how much it disturbed her.

  “General,” the SooSha hissed in a quiet voice. The skeletally-thin alien folded its arms across its chest and nodded politely.

  “Administrator,” Peepo replied in kind.

  “The Information Guild agrees to your proposal,” the mysterious alien informed her, not wasting any time for nuances or pleasantries. “You have forty-eight hours from the time we receive confirmation.”

  Peepo nodded. “And no information will get out, save for our own?”

  “That was the bargain,” the SooSha cocked its head and peered at the Mercenary Guild leader curiously. “Do you wish to…alter the deal?”

  “No,” Peepo said sharply. “I’m concerned about the Human Aethernet allowing information out which could harm the guild or the union.”

  “It is linked through GalNet,” the SooSha reminded her. “Which means it is controlled by our guild. We decide what gets through, and what does not. Throttling their pathetic excuse for information transfer is…less than nothing.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And in return, you will tell us about the current location of the TriRusk world?” the SooSha asked, perhaps a little too eagerly. Peepo’s eyes narrowed.

  “The location of where they were seen last,” Peepo countered. “This was the deal. It is your job to deal with the Peacemaker presence and the fallout afterward.”

  “I understand the difference perfectly, General,” the Information Guild Administrator confirmed, not even the least bit abashed at the mild rebuke. “The Trade Guild is firmly on board with us. Just give the word and the countdown will begin. But…only for forty-eight hours, General. Any longer and some will grow suspicious.”

  The SooSha disappeared and Peepo shook her head. She hated dealing with the Grimm in any capacity, but given the importance of the meeting, she had been forced to. Even so, the Information Guild could make a potentially powerful ally in the coming war.

  If the Mercenary Guild was going to save the Galactic Union, they would need everyone on their side. Before she could accomplish this, however, she needed to deal with the irritating, pesky Sansar Enkh, as well as the rest of the Four Horsemen.

  Fortunately for the Mercenary Guild, she had a plan.

  * * *

  Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Mulbah parked the car in one of the few open spots in the lot and looked around. A warm breeze blew across his face and the scent of saltwater filled his nose. Overhead, circling gulls cried out as they fought amongst one another for scraps of food and trash. The sky beyond was gray and cloudy, though he could just make out a few hints of sunlight peeking through. His pinplant suggested today would warm up eventually, but the mid-morning air was just brisk enough to suit him.

  Looking across the street, his eyes rested on the ancient Capitol Building, built almost 150 years before. It was in dire need of a renovation, he realized. He was shocked to discover he was able to see the cracks in the mortar from so far away. Parts of the roof had been replaced with bright blue tarps to cover holes, and someone, within the past few months since he had last been here, had stripped away the gold-painted metal that had once topped the three domes of the building. In its place there appeared to be simple ceramic tile.

  He made a mental note to hire some contractors privately to pay for the reconstruction of the Capitol Building. Outside of the president’s mansion and the Korps’ HQ, the Capitol Building was possibly the most important structure in modern-day Liberia. As bad as the politics of his homeland were, the edifice still meant something to the millions living within the country’s borders. Not just as a symbol of hope, but of a nation which remained Africa’s oldest republic. It had been built as a promise to the homeless, the destitute, of freed black men and women who left America behind to start a new life elsewhere. He would be damned before he let corrupt politicians lining their own pockets ruin the dreams of his ancestors.

  At least they final
ly poured the concrete for the parking lot, Mulbah noted as he checked his uniform. He hadn’t wanted to wear it but historically he was required. Even though the Kakata Korps was a private entity, his rank within the Liberian military was very real, albeit truncated. As a mere colonel, he normally wouldn’t gain access to the President of Liberia whenever he wanted. However, as Mulbah had proven time and time again, he was no ordinary colonel.

  His dark green CADPat battle dress uniform, based off of the old Canadian design, had been pressed and ironed to the point where he was almost certain the starched creases on his sleeves could open a man’s throat. A matching green belt and gold buckle secured his waist. On his right hip he carried his standard-issue Malketh Model 17 laser pistol. The black leather holster was shined bright enough to cause retinal damage if light reflected off of it at just the right angle. He wore his black commander’s beret, black boots shined as properly as his holster, and the ribbon rack on his chest had been updated before he made the trip. Traditionally, the highest award given by the Liberian government went before all the others, but given his current mood and the point he was trying to make, all of his Mercenary Guild ribbons had been placed above his honorary Liberian ones. This included the CASPer marksman qualification ribbon. If the president had an eye for awards, it was surely going to drive Mulbah’s message home.

  If not, well, screw him, Mulbah thought as he walked toward the mansion. I could always back a coup and depose him.