The Chess Pieces

by Joshua Landeros

  To all those who believed in the Reverence series, with a special thanks to my editors Don Sloan and Carol Thompson. Here’s to more to come.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Service

  Chapter 2: Condolences

  Chapter 3: Reflection

  Chapter 4: Impartiality

  Chapter 5: The Cherries

  Chapter 6: Bad Habits

  Chapter 7: At Your Request

  Chapter 8: An Invitation

  Chapter 9: Forsake Return

  Chapter 10: Never Again

  Chapter 11: Retrieval

  Chapter 12: Acceptance and Secrets

  Chapter 13: See You at the Gates

  Chapter 14: Mercy

  Chapter 15: Eyes of the World

  Chapter 16: Weak Links

  Chapter 17: All of Us

  Chapter 18: Honor

  About the Author:

  Preview:

  The Cast

  William Marconi/ S.S.C. Unit 21: a former member of the UNR’s Super Soldier Forces. The first cyborg to ever defect.

  Captain Joseph Halsey: leader of the resistance group known as the Crimson Angels.

  Sergeant Gabriella Neeson: daughter of the deceased Robert Neeson, former head scientist of the UNR. Co-leader of Crimson Angels.

  Lieutenant Jacob Neeson: brother to Gabriella, and fellow co-leader.

  Alexander Waltz: tech expert for the Crimson Angels

  Airman Patrick Noels: Top pilot for the Crimson Angels.

  Private Noah Wilson: Canadian Special Forces, squad leader.

  Chancellor Carl Venloran: Unrivaled commander of the United Nation Republic.

  Chancellor Aide James Kearney: personal assistant to the Chancellor.

  Aliss Howard/S.S.C. Unit 3-05: Head Commander of the elite cyborg fighting force known as the New Rough Riders, as well as the Super Soldier Psychoanalyst (SSPA).

  Marisol Leone/S.S.C. Unit 37: long term servant of the Crusaders, a UNR cyborg branch dedicated to overseas operations.

  Captain Wesley Howarth: Head Director of the Public Services and Inquires Division (PSID). The government agency is dedicated to investigations and monitoring public broadcasts.

  Dylan McGinley: Head Director of S.S.C. Unit Control, a department dedicated to monitoring cyborg behavior.

  Steve Oswald: host of the hit UNR show The Essential Globe

  Reverence Volume 1

  In the last installment, super soldier Will Marconi faced a choice between loyalty and preserving his way of life, or throwing everything to the wind to search for the truth. Will ultimately chose the latter, but at great cost. Now he is prepared to make Chancellor Venloran pay for all he’s done. The journey to take him down is full of adversaries, both old and new. Be a part of the next chapter:

  END OF KNIGHTHOOD

  PART I:

  THE CHESS PIECES

  Chapter 1 - Service

  August 26, 2050 - Des Moines, Iowa

  The tall oaks were marked with the blemishes of age, and yet they still stood twice as tall as the cement walls surrounding them. Fiery-colored leaves littered the neat courtyard as far as one could see. The courtyard was filled with enormous trees, along with a few elegant, smooth-stone benches that sat atop makeshift hills. The greenery of the space, despite the fading of autumn into winter, was quite scenic and attracted a pair of delicate birds. They hopped along through the branches of a tree as if it were a massive playground, finally settling near the upper canopy. They were soon joined by many others, their chirping forming a chorus. Swirling winds cradled the dry leaves in midair, offering even the departed souls a measure of solace, a final dance.

  Under the swaying, crumpled plumes of the autumn trees, two rows of men and women appeared. One row trudged through the grass sluggishly. The other marched through it with purpose. The groups were nearly even in number. The marching group wore all-black crisp uniforms and boots to match. Each also carried in their arms M4 carbine rifles as their beloved children. One child unto each parent, and though the M4s all looked the same, each one had a name and a human face. One person, the gunnery sergeant, marched out in front of this group as its respective head.

  The other group wore orange jumpsuits, their wrists bound by metal shackles. Their ankles were secured as well, limiting the amount of movement between each footstep. Whereas the faces of the uniformed group remained steady and staring straight ahead, the shackled group kept their faces downward, toward the grass. Likewise, their shoulders sagged. Tagging along behind them was another sergeant, his Janice pointed into their backs. For the most part undisturbed, the birds watched as the two rows began to split away from each other, quite like watching a giant Y form along the ground. The formation quickly turned into a V before the parallel lines came face-to-face, the shackled men and women standing with their backs against the smooth concrete wall, the other group with their backs against the wind, standing at attention.

  The sergeant walked between the lines, a fair amount of breathing room for his wide shoulders. He did not give the unarmed vermin his attention at all, but glared down at his own men and women with an icy stare they’d come to expect. Each plebe’s face was that of chiseled stone, and with their weapons rested upon their shoulders honorably, they appeared as perfect reflections of one another. All of them were incredibly young, without a single scar of battle upon their smooth faces, but the sergeant was pragmatic enough. He was sure they were all good and ready. As he turned to march past them again, he prepared to give them the essentials of what was about to happen.

  “Every few months, we get a payload of scumbags from our prisons,” he announced, one arm behind his back, “and as upcoming graduates, it is your task today to rid the country of this ration of filth. Do not weep for these men and women. They have all been convicted of murder, every last one of them. Some of them accidentally shot one person while trying to kill another. Others are here for the cold-blooded slaughter of their spouses or children, sometimes both. We even have, according to my roster, a few serial killers in this lineup. Sorry, folks, pleas of insanity are no good here, not in this damned good country.”

  He smiled briefly, not to the prisoners, not to his soldiers, but to himself.

  “Crime cannot and will not be tolerated at any cost. Their names are not important. The security of our great nation is the vital factor at the end of the day. Now raise your rifles!”

  The trainees responded in unison, among them Jacob and Neal. Alongside them were a few fellow cadets Jacob knew closely, Angela, Victor and Miles. He’d just met them all here, aside from Neal, but they’d become a close-knit family. At this moment, though, they said not one word to one another, but took aim in the silence, focusing on their individual targets. All could hear the chirping of the birds above them. A cool breeze snaked its way between Jacob’s fingers. He found it all quite calming.

  “Fire!”

  The synchronized shots rang out. The heads bounced back a little before the bodies tumbled over. The birds took flight. The dead leaves continued to dance in the morning sun.

  “Good! Excellent! Now everyone gather your martyr and head for the trucks. Move!”

  The soldiers instantly began to work, a pair for each corpse, with one gripping the body by its legs, the other by its wrists, before heading off to their destination in a single-file line of excellence. The next trainee platoon was arriving with the next batch of target practice. Captain Halsey spotted Jacob Neeson, and though he eyed the man with little subtlety, his subject paid him no mind. When Jacob was training, he never broke his focus.

  “Hurry up, boys and girls. Remember, you still got your laps to complete. Let’s double-time!!”

  ***

  Jacob lay motionless on the whi
te sheets and blanket of his bunk. For what it was worth, the alcohol kept up his body temperature in the chilly room. He was engaged with the large mural that was on the wall closest to him, near the exit door. He studied the epic from top-to-bottom and back again. Ever since arriving all those years ago, he’d stared at it every night.

  Neal walked into the bathroom, spotting a passed-out Victor lying next to a urinal. His snoring was only matched in its uncouthness by the drool dangling from his lip. Hayes was three urinals down finishing up and pulling up his zipper. He trudged past the downed Victor and eyed the half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo lying in his lap. In his own hand was an empty bottle of the same brand of liquor, to which he found himself smiling. It was a simple matter of ethics.

  Neal watched as Hayes, with little stealth, switched the bottles, so sloppy in his work the empty bottle slid slightly from Victor’s hand and hit the tiled floor.

  To both their delight, despite the loud clank, there was no shatter.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching Murano,” Neal said rather matter-of-factly. “Joe said he’d get us the liquor but from there it’s on us.”

  “Come on,” Hayes slurred. “He’s fine. Besides this is a fight he had to do himself. I rate his performance... poor.”

  With a laugh, he knelt to look at his peer. Despite a light slap to both cheeks, the man only briefly twitched. Hayes laughed before saluting the soldier.

  “It’s not my fault he’s going to miss this rare opportunity, but at least he’ll have a legitimate excuse why he didn’t get any.”

  Hayes let him be, but Neal felt a certain responsibility was in order. After a swift leave and quick return, now Neal himself sat next to the dozing fool. With a black marker, he drew the longest eyelashes he could, making sure to give them a certain feminine curve. On Victor’s light skin, the marker made for excellent eye shadow and, of course, the boy needed a mole to the left of his nose. His task complete, Neal stood and placed the blanket from the troop’s bunk over him neatly.

  “Sleep tight, cadet.”

  Neal reentered the main rest area and acknowledged that, indeed, Vic would miss out. Usually the barracks were a place of absolute silence at this hour, but tonight was a night of celebration. A banner hung from the ceiling, a simple bed-sheet with words painted sloppily across it. At the very least, it was pinned up horizontally. On it read, “Pre-Ceremonial Party.”

  As a token of the trainees’ progress, the officers had deemed it fair that the cadets get to throw their own little bash, including a rare mixing of the male and female students. As long as there were no fights, they’d been promised they would be free of supervision. What the party lacked in good music it made up for in sheer noise.

  Neal got a beer out of the ice chest on the floor. It couldn’t have been a party without the drinks, and their faithful Joe Halsey had delivered just as he’d promised. Despite the risk of the upper brass checking up on them and discovering the alcohol, Neal, like everyone else, cared little. Tonight was the night. The best part was that there was still much left to drink. Despite everyone being dressed fairly the same, with muscle shirts or white T-shirts and wearing the jet-black slacks, the many beautiful women had dolled themselves up considerably. The young men were their usual animal-like selves, but a few tried harder than others.

  The blood-red floor of the room they called home was shrouded in darkness besides the would-be multi-colored disco ball positioned in the middle of the room. At the expense of effort, it was where else but on the floor. The UNR flags hanging from each bed found themselves drenched in an odd array of colors.

  Neal spotted two people heading his way through the crowds: one a welcome sight and the other he would tolerate.

  “Hey, Sergeant Neal!” called the caramel-skinned woman, a beer in one hand. Noting her curly hair and toned body, Neal maintained his poise.

  “Hey, Angie, but I’m not there quite yet,” he said as he gave her a hug.

  “Aw, don’t bullshit me! Sometimes you make us look bad, squad leader,” she laughed.

  “Well, not intentionally, but it happens,” he said playfully.

  Following behind was Miles, in his arms a whiskey bottle. Unlike Angela, he sported no feminine sex appeal for special pardon, making his voyage through the tightly-packed crowd no easy task. He felt cold beer splash his neck along with a few melted-down ice cubes.

  “Hey, fuckin’ Miles, bring that bottle this way, asshole!” someone yelled.

  “In a minute, you little dipshit!” he shouted.

  “Make it quick, you scrawny cheesedick!”

  Neal could see it was Hayes and a few of his friends, always ready for another round. At long last, Miles reached them, roughly setting down the Jack.

  “Don’t spill that, asshole. Just because we’re in my dorm doesn’t mean I want a whole shitload to clean up in the morning.”

  “Don’t trip, man. I got it, I got it. Besides, just because you’re one of Sarge Huntman’s favorites doesn’t make it your dormitory.”

  “Soon will be by my standards.”

  Miles seemed amiss at that for a second, especially at Angela’s smile, but he laughed.

  “Never mind all that bull,” he said. “Where’s Halsey at? He should be here as my wingman.”

  “I don’t think he’d want to soil his reputation.”

  “See,” he said with a drinker’s confidence, “I think he just wanted us to throw some of our hard-earned money into his pocket.”

  “Hey, be glad he was even willing. We could have none at all.”

  “You weren’t gonna make a move either way,” Angie teased.

  “The ladies here just aren’t my type, man. I need a girl with a little academic aspiration.”

  “Like Jacob’s sister,” Angela laughed. “She transferred out of here last quarter to the R&D Studies Center in Iowa City. If you had plans of going there, you know you’re really late.”

  “She’s some kind of damned prodigy, I swear.”

  “She takes after her father,” Neal chimed in, “but don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone. Better act quickly, though, or else you’ll be going lefty tonight. That oughta shake things up.” He laughed.

  “You just gotta shit on me, huh, man?”

  “I’m just messin’ with you, relax.”

  “Come to think of it, where’s the other star pupil?” Miles asked.

  They all looked around, quickly spotting Jacob in his bunk several beds down and away from the commotion. With one arm folded behind his head on the pillow, the other hand on a bottle, he looked rather still.

  “I don’t get it,” Angela said, still looking in that direction. “Why didn’t he transfer like she did?”

  “You kidding? He doesn’t even come close to her academic averages, plus all the extracurricular programs she constantly buried herself in,” Miles said. “He wants to sweat it out with us.”

  Neal’s military pride broke through on the festive night:

  “Jacob gives it his all here. It’s his path, just like it’s ours. He’s not scared of a little combat.”

  “Well, you’re his butt buddy. Of course, you’d exaggerate it like that.”

  He said this as he stared off in Jacob’s direction. Neal, however, now turned his gaze Miles’ way.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  There was a sharp sense of his anger in his voice. Quickly, though, he realized that the soldier was more intoxicated than he let on. He could see it as Miles focused on him with a goofy smile only a drunkard could give. The following words were not worth his time, but it was too late now to end the argument that was to take place.

  “Look at him over there. Sure, he can run team-ops, first on the track every damn time, and, yes, no one can deny he’s a great fucking shot. But with this gig you have to be a killer, and my argument is that a killer he is not.”

  Neal could hardly take the suddenly haughty tone Miles had taken on, but questioning his friend’s me
ttle was something he could not stand even more.

  “We’ll see how your bullshit holds up in the field.”

  “The field? If he makes it that far. The exercise today already has him shaken up.”

  Angela stood in silence. Neal too was quiet for a moment. His witticism and decisiveness were shaken by the bold claim.

  “In fact, I’ll call him on it right now just to prove my point.”

  Neal was ready to thrust himself back into the skirmish at that, but Miles put up a hand of reassurance.

  “No, no, don’t worry. I’ll do it with courtesy,” he laughed before heading off in Neeson’s direction. Neal let him go, not blind to the fire he’d started. Sometimes, though, the only way to kill a fire was to let it burn itself out.

  The lone soldier was atop a hill, a superlative orange sun behind her. Neeson had always been in awe of the fact that the soldier was no sergeant, lieutenant, or captain. She was what the impertinent would dub none other than a “grunt.” Her neck-length black hair blowing in the wind, her smudged auburn skin glistening in the twilight, the battle won, she held her helmet in one arm and her gun in the air. Despite the bandaged wound on her arm, stained with the price of conquest, it did not appear to cause her any strain at all. Though the soldier was not depicted with an overzealous smile, the pride was in the eyes.

  His moment of solitude, however, was interrupted by Miles, who blocked the view of the victorious soldier. Jacob eyed him with unabridged detest.

  “You holdin’ up, man? Looks to me like you can’t hack it.”

  Jacob lay there, a stoic look on his face accompanied by silence. The fool failed to notice the bulging vein that had begun to creep across the man’s forehead. For the sake of all that was dimwitted, Miles decided to go for a more sincere approach. He was hell-bent on a response.

  “Dude, I’m serious. I mean I’m just looking out for you—”

  Jacob suddenly sat up as if to strike the dupe, who flinched as if a beast had lunged at him. The man was standing now, not an inch from the mongrel’s face.

  “Miles, shut the FUCK UP!”