Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1)

by Julian St Aubyn Green

  There was an emotional tremor in the normally hard-edged major’s voice. No one liked to be reminded of innocent casualties, even those in the front line, in the business of waging war. From Philippe’s own experience, those who didn’t mind the extra casualties typically were untrustworthy and had little experience with blood on their hands.

  As Sacks turned to Philippe the Sikh whispered, “Assholes. What have they got against a good party?”

  “They appear to have been targeting a small group in the crowd.” The major raised his voice over the sudden murmurs on the crackling microphone of the shaky satellite communications. “When you run the footage, pay close attention. You’re likely to see pre-authorized kill targets. Show the up-close footage now.”

  As one of the team clicked the screen, it lit up with four different images arranged in a square. The men fell silent and all eyes focused on the screen. It displayed four different camera angles of the colorful extravaganza that was the Samba parade in full swing. A woman speaking Portuguese provided a barely audible voice-over to the sounds of drums and the cheers of the packed stands.

  Riotous colors swirled by from two-story floats and dancers twirled in strands of rainbow garments accented by sparkles of every sort. Fireworks went off irregularly; or perhaps they were gunshots. It was Rio and difficult to differentiate sometimes. But no one was concerned about those sounds. Everyone simply drank and fell into the enthrallment of the experience that was Rio Carnival.

  Then the mood changed.

  As members of the crowd started yelling and pointing, one of the camera views tilted, zooming in on an apparently empty section of the clear night sky. Half a dozen bright beams of light from one end of the parade to the other began to focus on the crowded stands. There didn’t appear to be any source to the lights. They simply started in mid-air and illuminated sections of the packed stands.

  Philippe couldn’t help but be fascinated. There was nothing showing in the camera view, just those powerful probing beams that urgently scanned sections of the crowd.

  Abruptly, all of the lights focused on one spot. One of the cameras turned away from the dancers, showing the crowd in brightly-lit conditions. It was then that a shimmer, like a heat mirage in the desert, appeared in the camera pointed skywards. Like something appearing out of a fog over the water, the aircraft materialized in the night sky.

  It was massive, not quite filling the entire Sambadrome. Its hull reflected the lights from below, the city’s glare ensuring that it could easily be seen by anyone looking up. There was a background of appreciative sounds from those that presumed it was part of the parade. The footage paused, allowing Fox Squad a detailed look.

  “How big is that thing, Major?” Philippe probed intently, trying to see details, weaknesses in the shining metal. It was as big as a skyscraper, metal and glass, with translucent, sail-like appendages sticking out from the sides. It looked almost like a celestial float, angels participating in the greatest party on earth. The crowd looked completely entranced by the sight.

  “Given the length of that road … ‘bout 600 meters long,” came the reply to Philippe’s query.

  Sacks whistled low before speaking. “That’s twice the size of a Nimitz-class supercarrier.”

  “Funny you mention that, Sergeant, because like a carrier it appears to act as a launch vehicle. Watch,” the major replied as the footage continued in slow motion. Multiple things began to happen at once. From the front of the aircraft, an eyeball-shaped mechanism began to glow as if it were powering up. It swiveled and an orb of black and silver erupted towards the crowd, centered in the spotlights. Simultaneously, a large section of the craft’s lower hull dropped downwards, swinging out like the cargo bay ramp of a C-130 Hercules.

  As the beach ball-sized glowing orb descended, Sacks whistled again. “That’s a damned big gun. What the hell is it firing?”

  “Must be this energy weapon that took out the Gettysburg,” one of the squad proffered.

  As the energy descended in slow motion towards the crowd, Philippe noticed that one by one, faces in the crowd changed from showing awe to fear. Fear that spread like oil on water. Some bystanders were still pointing as if at a firework display, but a large number had started to turn and try to move away.

  The frame-by-frame playback of the footage showed a sparkling green waver in the air, like a wisp of smoke that interposed between the target and the oncoming projectile. The orb deflected from its initial trajectory, heading towards the road and a group of dancers instead.

  What the fuck was that? Philippe swore to himself. He was about to say something when the footage showed the aftereffects as the energy struck the ground. In slow motion, frame by excruciating frame, the projectile struck one dancer in her gold costume of a stylized eagle. Philippe’s throat constricted, his gag reflex triggered as the dancer disintegrated, pulled apart by tendrils of black energy that drew everything around it towards the center of the projectile like a perverted vacuum cleaner, before impacting the ground.

  When it condensed to the size of a baseball and only the brightly colored feet of the dancer were left, it exploded with the sound of someone playing the world’s largest bass guitar cranked well past eleven. The concussion ripped a crater half a meter wide in the road and tossed the remains of the innocent dancer away, like a child knocking over toys. Nearby dancers flew in all directions, hitting the ground limply, stunned or possibly dead.

  Despite over a decade as a professional soldier, Philippe found it hard to watch and remain clinical about the destructive power of the weapon.

  A nearby float rippled as its fabric felt the onrushing air; a millisecond later, the full shockwave hit and the float upturned, landing on top of a drumline. Paper flowers flew through the air like a blizzard of extra-large confetti.

  People in the stands some distance away were thrown to the ground with the force of the explosion. Spectators and participants alike were either stunned from the energy, or dead. There were more than a few streaks of red on the ground. Philippe started shutting down his emotions. From the expressions on the faces of the squad, Philippe could see that he wasn’t alone.

  Philippe didn’t forget the horror. He resolutely pushed it all the way down into those little black boxes that most warriors keep hidden within. Feelings like that were never acknowledged. They were saved for later. For when things had to be done, and the warrior needed a reason. Every occasion of human misery experienced made the black box a little bigger. It consumed some.

  Philippe knew men like that, suffering from shell shock, or battle fatigue, or PTSD, or whatever the newest catch-phrase was. Those that could, channeled it, using it as fuel. It was will made manifest. The will to take the fight to the enemy. The will to conquer, no matter the cost, because the cost of losing would be far higher.

  It became the will to kill another without hesitation or remorse.

  Philippe knew all the members of JTF2 already possessed that will in spades, and right now, Fox Squad had gotten a booster shot. As first responders and bystanders ran towards the barely living and the newly dead in the video, each man on Fox Squad was making peace with something inside. After seeing that, command wouldn’t even have to ask them to take kill shots. They were pre-authorized, and there wasn’t a man among them who was going to ask further permission.

  Naturally, Sacks was the first to break the somber reverie. “So. Are we allowed to take a necklace of ears this time? I promised my kid brother I’d send him something for his birthday.” There was a good deal of barely suppressed laughter at the gallows humor.

  Major Coombs went from emotional back to hard-nosed commander in an instant. “Leve, I thought we discussed Sergeant Raj’s behavior …”

  “Goddammit Sacks!” Philippe hissed out loud, his face sporting a macabre grin.

  His reprimand was for show and he knew Fox Squad was aware of that. Out here in the wilderness, there was no media directly involved. There was no diplomacy. If these invaders showed up
, it was kill or be killed with an enemy that thought nothing of countless civilian casualties to achieve their goals. Philippe knew the squad would shoot first and count bodies later.

  What gave him a queasy feeling was that the squad might be so outgunned that they would end up with the very short end of a very sharp stick.

  “Hmph,” Major Coombs snorted. “Keep watching. It gets better. Bastards get some comeuppance. Pay close attention to the man in the red and gold robes.”

  The video continued as Philippe gave Sacks the evil eye for mouthing off, before winking.

  Another smaller aircraft, sleek and blatantly weaponized, launched out of the now-open bay doors that led to an internal hangar. At first, it looked to be an ungainly missile. Then it hovered and spun about on its own, clearly some sort of piloted or at least guided aircraft.

  Smaller versions of the main gun adorning the carrier powered up on the prow of the attack craft. It fired and some shots ended up in the crowd in its wild gyrations as it lined up towards the convergence of search lights. The firing appeared to Philippe to be the ship trying to clear space to land, blasting carnival floats that were in the way.

  After imploding a particularly large float, the smaller craft landed. A dark-skinned man wearing highly ornate Middle-Eastern or perhaps Indian garb stepped off the ramp of the smaller craft. Cloth of gold featured heavily in what appeared to be a haute couture costume more suited to a runway in Milan. He sported a precisely trimmed beard that suggested he spent hours in front of a mirror grooming.

  Philippe hated him instantly.

  Whoever the man was, two files of what could only be soldiers in ornate armor, designed in matching colors of red and gold with a cloth covering chest and legs, flanked him on both sides. They look like storm troopers, but from a musical. Is that a tabard? Philippe wondered, his awe at the scene replaced by tactical analysis of their adversaries.

  The group hurried in a tight military formation, strange weapons held in their arms, towards the area under the spot-lights.

  Sacks couldn’t seem to help himself. “Seriously? Another brown-skin doing bad shit? Why me? This shit isn’t funny anymore!” Half of Fox Squad snickered in the background.

  “Hey Sacks, didn’t know your terrorist brother was in town. What’s the occasion?”

  Sacks looked back over a shoulder. “Oh, we’re planning a family get-together. You know, kidnap a journalist, cut off a few heads, blow up a building, the usual. Only that jackass isn’t my brother. That guy’s beard looks like it was glued on. Mine’s natural manhood from having a big pair. What’s your excuse, baby face?” the Sikh responded with good-humored sarcasm.

  There were a couple of chuckles before Philippe waved his hand for them to keep it down.

  Occasional bursts of light from weapons carried by the soldiers mowed down a few nearby police and military types with brutal efficiency. Fox Squad could see that most of the sporadic return fire ricocheted harmlessly off their tactical gear. The finely dressed man in the center of the formation continued towards the crowd, illuminated by the spotlights, unperturbed as his troops efficiently slaughtered anyone near them.

  He scanned the crowd, searching for someone or something in particular, though the camera angle and the number of people running around made it hard to tell what he was looking for.

  The robed man’s gaze roved through the crowd like a lion selecting its target from a herd of antelope, until he found whoever it was. Within the fleeing masses, a small group of people, perhaps half a dozen, moved to take cover but weren’t running around in a panic. Unlike everyone else on the street, they seemed composed or fatalistic about the approaching force.

  An imposing black woman with a military bearing appeared to be issuing orders. The others included a tall Asian man with long black hair; a small, waifish woman who could have passed for a local in Rio; a blond woman whose steady bearing and watchful attitude strongly suggested ‘first responder’; and an unkempt man who could have been a poster child for a garage band. Wait. Is he carrying a guitar?

  The tall Asian man took a rapid step forward. At that point, all the red-robed soldiers took position in a firing line and opened up with their weapons simultaneously. The man with the guitar apparently thought it was the right moment for playing a riff, and a shimmering green wall deflected the red shock troopers’ strange projectiles away from the little coterie.

  That’s one hell of a guitar. What just happened? Philippe wondered.

  Sacks couldn’t help himself. “Call the press! Kurt Cobain’s not dead, he’s helping out aliens in Rio!” Suppressed laughter sounded at his dig at the dead rock star. Philippe glared at his partner.

  Despite the crimson and gold shock troopers’ earlier successes with the Rio police and military, none of their shots hit anywhere near the protected group. Then the bearded man in the finery spread his arms as if he were performing a greeting or maybe a dance move in response to the guitarist.

  Philippe had seen flamethrowers in action before. Once in a great while, an old weapons guy or young gun bunny in the unit broke them out of the armory for a good dusting and to go have some fun at the range. They were no longer legal according to the Geneva Convention, but no military ever truly gave up a tactical advantage. But those were large and bulky weapons, comprised of huge tanks with a nozzle the size of a breaching shotgun.

  The man waved his arms and orange fire crawled around him like a living serpent. The flames somehow mirrored and acted upon each of his moves with precision. He’s controlling the flame. Philippe could tell he was building up to something. The urgency of the flames appeared to increase dramatically as the man’s intention became obvious. His building firestorm of flame was about to descend on the vulnerable looking group and burn them to ash.

  And then, it didn’t happen.

  A rictus of pain, fear, and rage gripped his features in a demonic mask. His upraised arms locked into position and flame curled around him like a pet python made of incandescent death. He shook in concentration, and then Philippe saw something that made his heart jump in his chest. The man’s eyes glowed as he stood, screaming. The glowing of his eyes intensified. First was orange, then yellow, and finally white. Waves of heat rolled off the man, clearly visible even in the footage.

  Sacks naturally chose to comment at that point. “Holy shit! What the fuck was that? That dude have a superhero shoved up his ass or something? Yeah, definitely not my brother.” A few strained chuckles were followed by a collective intake of breath as the footage continued.

  The bearded man’s guard shrank away from the awful heat a millisecond before white hot fire blasted outward in a circumferential wave from the man in red. The glow was so bright it affected the picture quality.

  All the armored men on the ground didn’t simply catch fire. They incinerated in seconds, black humanoid shapes made of dust, whisked away on white flame that moved as silken, liquid destruction.

  The man’s face contorted in an open-mouthed expression of pain, his muscles spasming and shaking. The fire appeared to be not entirely under his control. From his locked arms, a tornado of flame rose above him and tore upwards towards the shining metal hull of the aircraft.

  Like lava from an exploding volcanic eruption, the solid column of white flame ripped into the hull of the airborne ship, causing a secondary explosion as that strange cannon disintegrated, rocking the whole aircraft.

  Philippe noticed the target group only after the major pointed out the analysts’ conclusions of the group and who it consisted of. The smallest of them all, barely more than a girl, staggered as if struck. She held her head and the blond woman moved to support her. Why would he attack his own ship? Something isn’t right here. And what’s going on with the girl there? What else aren’t we seeing? Philippe turned over the questions in his mind at the major’s narration of the military’s assumptions.

  Sacks punched the air several times. “Fuck yeah! Who’s your daddy now? How’d that feel? Huh? Hooooo! Yes! Put
that in your pipe and smoke it.” His animated reaction inspired a few hoots and there was even a high-five at the damage done to the carrier.

  The footage continued and showed the ship starting to change position. It appeared to be on fire in several locations and the enormous hole torn in the hull revealed multiple decks within the structure. The ship was in trouble, that much was obvious, the front listing forward several degrees.

  The man in red stumbled away from the encounter. The street around him bubbled from the intense heat. His clothes and gear barely smoked while everything around him was ground zero after a napalm strike. Only his own person and the area immediately around his original position appeared unaffected by his pyrotechnic outburst.

  The smaller craft circled around and another soldier in distinctive red armor exited, sprinting to assist him. Staggering towards the ship, the bearded man in red and gold collapsed to his knees on the cooling, molten road before the on-rushing guard could make it the scant few meters to him.

  Whatever had happened, Flame Dude looked completely FUBAR. His skin was pale and he could barely raise a shaking hand to the attending soldier. He did little more than drag his feet in the direction of the ship as he clung to the guard at his side. The soldier very nearly had to carry the full weight of the man as they staggered back up the ramp into the smaller ship.

  Major Coombs’s narration returned Philippe’s attention to the small group. It was these people the attackers had targeted. The man with the guitar shouted, but the camera’s microphone did not pick up his words over the roar of fire and the cries of the wounded. The group responded by pulling together tightly, crowding close to him. They appear to sing, of all things, before a sudden blue and silver spherical cloud billowed from the guitar to engulf them all. It hung there for a few seconds before dissipating like mist.