The bass pounded louder as the Knights approached their table. Out of the corner of his eye Spurious watched the ghostly blue radiating out of their goggles. He swallowed and felt his heart tighten in his chest. He was sure now they were coming for him. He didn’t dare look up as the Knights moved closer.
Maybe he could outrun them, but what then? Where would he go? If they wanted him, they would find him. Ing was right. Spurious remained sitting and waited for the Knights to take him away. And just when they were almost on him, he saw them grab a straggly-looking man and drag him out of the tavern.
“No! I didn’t do anything wrong!” he screamed.
“You’re coming with us,” one of the Knights said, picking the man up by the back of his shirt and tossing him through the open door and into the dark night.
Spurious took a deep breath of relief, his chest heaving in and out. “Holy shit, that was close. I think it’s time to go home and get some rest,” he said, his heart finally returning to a normal pace.
“Damn, I really thought they were coming for us.” Ing said, his hand visibly shaking as he took another long swig of ale. He wiped the liquid off his mouth and stared across the table at his friend, a serious look painted on his semi-intoxicated face. “You better watch your back, especially with Lana. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you too, Spurious. Losing Paulo is enough. Please promise me you won’t see her again.”
Spurious took one last swig from his mug. “I’m sorry, Ing, All I can promise you is that I’ll be careful.”
Ing rolled his eyes, pushing his chair back under the table. “You know your secret is safe with me,” he said, as he left to pay his tab.
Spurious watched his friend leave with a raised brow. “I sure hope so.”
Chapter 5: Spartans
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
~Confucius
Time: 2:31 a.m. January 31, 2071
Location: Office of the Royal Knight Commander. Lunia, Tisaia
It was two in the morning and the Commanding Royal Knight of Tisaia, Alexander Augustus, paced back and forth nervously in his quarters. His left hand grasped a half smoked cigar that bled a trail of smoke up into his nostrils. Two drops of sweat crept down the Knight’s forehead, finding their way into a scar that left a deep ravine down his left cheek. At the age of 45, the Knight had his fair share of scars. It was one reason he had gained his rank so quickly. Historically the Commanding Royal Knights were picked for their distinguished military role in Tisaia. There were only two before him, both assassinated before their second year of service. Augustus had already served two terms and was entering his third. He had survived two assassination attempts and knew the next one was probably imminent.
Four of his staff members sat around the marble war table in the center of his office. He watched his most trusted confidante, Chief of Staff Simmon, discussing recent events with his subordinates.
The candle light flickered in the dark room, illuminating the murals painted across the ceiling. The scene depicted the ancient battle of Thermopylae in 480BC, where the small and vastly outnumbered Spartan armies of Greece prevented the Persian army from following the main Greek army in their retreat. The mural was created at the beginning of his first term. After long work days he was known to lock the monstrous oak doors to his office, pour a glass of whiskey and study the mural from the comfort of his plush leather chair.
“Sir, with respect, I think we have enough information to shut down the trolley stations indefinitely. It appears this was not an isolated attack and our intelligence sources indicate there may be other impending attacks. I think the rebels have the capability of launching another attack on this scale again, at any time,” Staffer Marcus Mcaina argued.
Simmon did not respond. Instead his ocean blue eyes remained fixated on the holographic data streaming from a projector in the middle of the marble table. He studied the data, requesting the AI to move on after he had read one entry in its entirety. Behind him the Commander continued to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace that extended from the south wall of the room. As the sound of the minute hand on the grandfather clock clicked away, Simmon continued to read, analyzing the situation through every avenue he could think of. The uneasiness in the room faded away until the crack of a burning log in the fireplace brought Simmon to his feet.
“Commander, I’d like to issue my opinion,” Simmon said, propping his sword against his chair out of respect. Augustus raised his brow, and moved his solid stone jaw in approval.
“Staffer Mcaina seems to think we should yield to the terrorist rebels. In fact, he would have you believe we should completely shut down our underground trolley stations. He claims this small group of radicals has the capability to launch similar attacks at any given time. And while our intelligence has given us adequate information to assume this to be true, I’d argue we meet this threat head on. Let us staff the trolley stations with more soldiers and launch an offensive into the heart of these rebels. We shall take this fight underground and crush this rebellion once and for all. The safety of Tisaia and her citizens depends on a victory, not to mention the financial well-being of our already fragile economy. If we shut down the trolley stations, our State workers will have to find new forms of transportation to work, which may place delays in all government departments,” the Chief of Staff said.
Simmon was a man of few words. His motto was, least said, easiest mended, but there was never a time when he was afraid to voice his opinion. After analyzing the data, he came to what he thought was a reasonable solution and sold it to his commander. In fact, he was usually Augustus’ voice of reason. It wasn’t uncommon for Mcaina and Simmon to argue, but in situations with the TDU, Simmon’s position had always allowed him to gain the upper hand.
For a few moments the entire room remained silent. The tick of the grandfather clock and occasional crack of the fire were the only source of noise in the uncomfortably quiet room. Every one of the staffers at the war table knew the stakes projected in front of them. If they did not act against the rebels, Tisaia’s fate might not be much different from the rest of the world’s.
As the hour hand of the grandfather clock struck midnight Augustus took one last drag of his cigar, savoring the smoke before he exhaled it into the air. He rose from his chair and placed both of his large and rough hands on the table.
“Gentlemen, I have made my final decision.” He paused to watch his silent staffers. There was something about making his subordinates wait for his decision that was so gratifying.
“I have decided that we’ll reopen and reverse Project 1200,” he said, pausing to gauge their reaction.
Mcaina and Simmon immediately fidgeted in their chairs while another staffer reached for his tie, attempting to loosen it. Everyone around the table knew Project 1200 referenced the underground tunnels below Tisaia. They all remembered the horrors committed there by the Tisaian National Army before it was disbanded at the end of the war and replaced with the Council of Royal Knights. It was at the height of the Biomass Wars, when the survivors of the holocaust had gone underground to survive. There were entire cities of survivors underneath the surface of Tisaia, seeking refuge from the radiation poisoning above. And there wasn’t enough food or shelter for all of them. So the young Tisaian government had simply closed off access to some of the tunnels, leaving the survivors on the other side to fend for themselves. Most of them starved to death, while others were said to have left to take their chances in the Wasteland. Reversing Project 1200 meant reopening the tombs of the past, something unthinkable until now.
“I’m authorizing this project to reopen under strict guidelines. The project shall be overseen primarily by the Special Forces group, the Dark Horses. They will be deployed as a hunter killer unit, sent out to explore the tunnels closed off for years. This is where we believe the TDU to be hiding. Only a handful of CRK officers will know about this project and it shall be conducted with the utmost secrecy. As for Simmon’s
recommendations, I have decided we shall divert half of the available reserve CRK forces to be posted in all public facilities. Furthermore, the trolley stations shall be staffed with our finest officers. Lastly, I’m going to recommend we increase our offensive against the rebels. I want their leader caught, and their headquarters discovered within two weeks. With the reopening of these tunnels that should be more than enough time, don’t you think?” He turned his back to his staff to face the heat of the burning fire.
Simmon nodded in approval, savoring the small victory he had gained over Mcaina. The Dark Horses were the best Knights they had, but Simmon wasn’t sure if even they had the stomach for what they would find. He could only imagine the horrors and utter terror those on the other side experienced when they were closed.
As the staffers filed quietly out his door, Augustus turned once again to view the mural of the Battle of Thermopylae. An uncharacteristic sense of fear washed over him as he thought of the battle that lay ahead. He always compared his men to the Spartans. Their fierce loyalty, bravery, and skills as warriors defined the CRK, just like it had the Spartans. And for a second he questioned how history would remember his men. Would they compare them to the Spartans or the Persians? The thought disappeared quicker than the sparks crackling inside his fireplace. It was a shameful reflection to have, especially for the Commander of the CRK, and it only strengthened his resolve to crush the TDU.
He smiled, watching the fire consume the logs, knowing that history would remember him and his men as modern day Spartans after they destroyed the TDU.
* * *
Commander Augustus lay in his oversized bed, counting the small clouds of smoke trailing out of his burning cigarette. He looked to the empty pillow next to him, only to be reminded that his wife was no longer alive, the victim of a bullet meant for him. He rested his head back down on his pillow, thoughts of the past racing through his mind. Quickly, the memories brought back the familiar pain only cured by a heavy dose of whiskey.
The early morning hours were always the worst, as he began to mentally prepare himself for the day before him. In the years following the Biomass Wars, when the world went to shit, Augustus was just a young man. His father and brother were both in the United States Army before it crumbled with the rest of the government. Augustus and his family were a few of the fortunate survivors. They scratched out a living in the tunnels below what had once been the great city of Chicago, now nothing more than ruins in the distance.
He had risen to the top of the CRK through the fire and destitution many of his colleagues also faced. These hardships helped the survivors create a strong Tisaia, one he would do anything for. He would stop at nothing in his quest to rid Tisaia of the TDU terrorist threat. Politics meant little to him. The discussion of Bill 12b was nothing more than a side note on his desk. He never questioned Governor Felix’s orders. It wasn’t his job. His job was to protect Tisaia from her many enemies.
He blew another cloud of smoke into the air, forgetting his troubles. A clock in his sparsely furnished bedroom rang, indicating it was 6:00 am, and the day had officially begun. Today everything is going to change, he thought, smearing the butt of his cigarette on a glass ashtray beside his bed. The embers cooled and suffocated, dying in their glass grave.
Time: 8:46 a.m. January 31, 2071
Location: Council of Royal Knights Headquarters. Lunia, Tisaia
The auditorium was warm, so warm that the select group known as the Dark Horses had removed their helmets as they sat waiting for their new assignment. Many of them had heard the rumors already—Project 1200 was being reopened, but most of the Knights didn't believe it could be true. After all, a Knight was not selected and assigned to the Dark Horses by believing rumors or participating in gossip. The Dark Horses were the most honorable and skilled group of Knights in the CRK. They went through years of testing and training to get where they were, and not a single one of them dared jeopardize it in anyway. They knew the drill: sit and wait, listen to the orders, and execute them flawlessly. It was all just part of the job.
In the center of the room a blue hologram shot out of a small opening in the marble table, illuminating the CRK’s main auditorium as the lights dimmed in the room. Supreme Royal Knight Morr stood at the side of the table, tapping his helmet, which he had removed to examine the blueprints.
“Listen up, men. We have intelligence indicating the rebels are hiding out somewhere on the western border of Lunia, shortly outside these walls,” he said, pointing to several locations on the blueprints. “Jeriche, I need my glasses,” Morr shouted impatiently. His assistant rose from the first row and quickly made his way to the center of the auditorium to hand Morr his glasses. “Thanks,” he said, briefly acknowledging the short man’s presence.
Jeriche walked back to his seat, waiting for Morr to give him another command. For the past four years he served with a staunch resolution, completing every task asked of him. He could only hope his commander would reward him for his unwavering loyalty someday.
Back at the table Morr slipped on his glasses and focused on the blueprints, the blue glow of the holograms illuminating his meticulously kept armor. He stood for several minutes, thumbing through the images, before bringing his fist down on the table in anger.
“Can someone explain why the hell we can’t get a current map of these locations?” he screamed. The Knight scanned the dim room, but the Dark Horses stared back at their leader blankly.
“Well! Which one of you is responsible for these blueprints?” he demanded, anger growing in his voice.
Finally, after minutes of silence, an engineer assigned to the squad rose from his seat.
“Sir, with respect, the Sector of Governmental Services is supposed to be surveying all tunnels and storm drains below Tisaia. However, those tunnels aren't mapped because," the engineer paused and glanced nervously at his feet. "Those tunnels were part of Project 1200 and were closed off years ago," he finished nervously.
Morr paused to take his glasses off so his naked eyes could fall on his men with no impediments. He needed to gauge their reactions. It was a part of what made him one of the best: being able to read his soldiers, to see how far he could push them before they would break. It was a skill all great commanders in the history of warfare perfected. And it won wars.
“You know I’m not melodramatic, but men, you’re some of the finest damn soldiers in Tisaia. What I’m about to tell you, I don’t do lightheartedly. Project 1200 is being reopened. This comes from the very top. We have two weeks to map these tunnels and flush out the TDU. Augustus believes they’re hiding in these tunnels and Governor Felix has signed off on this plan.”
The crowd of Knights stared back at him blankly. Not a single one of them flinched. The engineer was the only one squirming in his chair. Just when Morr was about to turn, satisfied his men were up for the challenge, a middle-aged Knight named Riya, who served as an adviser to Commander Augustus, stood. Most of his colleagues knew him for his quick thinking and his ability to negotiate.
“Permission to speak, Supreme Knight Morr,” Riya asked.
“What possible input could you bring to this conversation, Knight Riya?”
Morr and Riya had a long past. They both joined the academy and served as cadets in the same class. They quickly became class rivals and it was Riya who obtained the highest rank a cadet could earn before becoming a Knight. Their history had since been a clouded one, where competition and rivalry fueled many of their policy moves.
Riya laughed arrogantly, showing no respect for his superior. “What could I possibly bring to this dialogue?” he asked, chuckling.
“The first thing I could do is tell you the tunnels that were closed off decades ago under Project 1200 are nowhere you want to send your best men. I know because I was there many years ago. The horrors in those tunnels are unspeakable. They would be the last place the TDU would be hiding.” Riya said.
“Two weeks to map an area as large as this is an impossible task
and will only result in more deaths of SGS employees and Knights. Being an advisor to the Governor, I could certainly ask him to reconsider,” he finished.
Morr laughed. “Are you actually that ignorant, to believe the Governor would consider what you have to say on this matter? Don’t you think he would have asked you if he wanted your input?” he said, watching Riya’s face turn red with embarrassment.
“Where along the lines did you forget what an order is? This plan is not open for negotiation, and has come from Commander Augustus’ office and the Governor. This is the mission—this is your mission. And you will accept it.” Morr paused and turned to look at Riya directly.
“You would be best to learn your place as a Knight, Riya. You aren’t a politician. You’re a soldier. The faster you learn that, the better or you’ll face the consequences,” Morr concluded, turning back to the hologram.
Riya sat back down in his chair silently, furious at the threat his superior had just thrown at him in front of his fellow Knights. And the fact Morr called him by his name without referring to his rank made him boil inside. One of the first things a Knight learned in the academy was the formal way of conversation. He didn’t speak like a stiff robot because he enjoyed it; he did so because he was taught to.
If he was a younger man he would have struck Morr in the jaw, but he was old enough to know his place and what he could get away with. Even Riya knew when enough was enough, and today he had crossed a line he hadn’t been fully prepared to cross.
Satisfied, Morr turned back to the rest of his men. “I presume the rest of you don’t have any questions. Correct?” he asked, shuffling a few pieces of loose paper and raising a brow before proceeding, to avoid any further disruptions. “Okay then. Your team leaders will brief you in several hours. This mission is a green light. We’re heading out, once we gear up and get briefed. That is all, men; you’re dismissed. Good luck, and kill me some damn TDU.”
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