Fires of Prometheus

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Generals?” said Spartan involuntarily.

  “Why of course. You think what you have seen so far represents all of our resources? We haven’t even begun to unleash our forces. For now they are waiting, though people such as yourself could help shorten the length of any campaigns and ultimately save lives.”

  Spartan couldn’t do it. His mind kept telling him to say yes, get out of the cell and try and work from the inside. The problem was that there were parts of the offer that appealed to him. The structure, the power and the resources to do something significant were a massive temptation. If he pushed he might even become a major commander who could mould and shape things in a way that might actually benefit people. The trouble was his gut told him he was lying to himself. He knew deep down that they would kill or enslave anybody opposed to their will. The relatively light hand of the Confederacy would be replaced by a totalitarian regime with strict laws, rules and religious decrees. As he considered the options the Governor sighed.

  “I see you are unsure as to what you should do. I will take your lack of an immediate ‘no’ to be a ‘maybe’. You can return to your cell, I suggest you give this a good think over. Just don’t wait too long. Nobody has survived in the red group for more than two weeks and I think you’ll find some of your friends will be joining you,” he said with a dismissive smile.

  The door slid open and in walked two of the guards, they looked like the ones that had brought him there but with the armour there was no way to be sure. He had just a few seconds before he was out of the room and in that brief moment he had just one question to ask.

  “If I accept, can I bring others with me?”

  “That is something we can discuss...if you decide we are your future. Just remember, you don’t have long.”

  A hand on his shoulder pulled him to the door and before he could reply he was back in the corridor and making his way along the smooth surface to the sliding door. A light click behind them indicated the door to the room was now shut. Once they were three quarters the way to the door it hissed open to reveal another two guards who were standing alongside another prisoner. It wasn’t anybody he recognised, she was a petite woman in her mid thirties with fiery red hair that was now matted and messy. As she moved towards Spartan in the corridor she turned and looked at him.

  “What do they want? Three of my friends just died in the mines. What is happening?” she cried her voice becoming hysterical.

  Spartan didn’t know what to say and before he could speak they were pushed past each other and he was back inside the elevator. As the door shut behind him one of the guards leaned in towards his ear.

  “Everybody joins in the end you know. It’s just a matter of time. Leave it too long and you’ll die in the mines or the arena. Your choice,” he said before straightening up.

  Spartan looked up at the dark visor, the face only partially visible under the glass.

  “You?”

  The guard said nothing and it looked like he was going to ignore Spartan. The elevator moved gently and they made their way back to their starting position. No light or markers indicated where they were and that told Spartan that the elevators were either controlled via the suits or they were being monitored from another location. He looked around at the featureless area until he spotted a slightly different coloured tile on the wall. He moved his head to one side and noticed it had a glossier surface than the rest. It must have been a camera mount or mirrored glass as it was the only feature there. The elevator started to slow down, now just a few seconds from the destination.

  “I used to be in one of the gangs back on Kerb. You know, we shifted electronics, weapons and shit. Next thing I know, we get busted by some kind of team and sent to a camp. They told me I could join or work in their factory ships.”

  Spartan said nothing, surprised the man had spoken. The door hissed open to reveal the vast open space surrounded by the room-sized cells for each of the work gangs and groups. The first guard moved out and indicated for him to follow. As he moved the second guard leaned in and spoke quietly.

  “This place is bullshit. They are making weapons for some kind of invasion. Get out!” he said in a whisper so that the other guard didn’t hear.

  Spartan was dumbfounded and his look could have easily given the guard away for the fact that he then struck Spartan in the shoulder.

  “I said get to your cell, animal!”

  Spartan staggered a few feet. He was angry but more at himself than the pain in his shoulder. On one hand he was being offered the chance to join the enemy and on the other he was being warned away. The only honourable thing was to stay and die, hardly a choice. They moved on further until they reached the bars and doorway to the red quarter where the rest of his group were. As the door opened he noticed some were eating food, others were trying to sleep.

  As Spartan stepped inside he realised his manacles were fitted but unlocked. He turned back around but the two guards looked the same and were staring directly at him.

  “Remember what I said!” said the guard to the right and then they were gone.

  As quickly as they had arrived Spartan found he was alone with the rest of the prisoners who were waiting and looking as though they wanted to hear what had happened. Misaki rushed over to him and lifted her manacled hands up so should could lifted them over his head.

  “I thought they’d taken you away!” she cried, grabbing on to him hard.

  Spartan was taken aback by her actions but quickly relaxed. After a few moments she loosened her grip though her arms were still around him and holding him in tightly. He was surprised at her actions as they barely knew each other and had only spoken for a matter of minutes. He put it down to the stress and anxiety of the situation.

  “What did they want?”

  Spartan lifted her hands, freeing himself and then slumped down to the wooden bench along the side. He hadn’t been away long but returning to this filthy part of the compound reminded him of how low they could all fall. The smell was disgusting and the toilets were at the far end and exposed to all. Spartan shook his head, arguing with himself.

  “Spartan! Tell me!”

  “They want us to join them, to help remove the Confederacy with their new system.”

  “That’s it? Is that so bad?”

  “I don’t know, Masaki. So far I haven’t seen much to be positive about. Anything would be better than this place though.”

  Misaki looked at the rest of the prisoners and then back to him.

  “When you were away a man arrived and told two of the men they had been selected for the re-education programme. They say a few people each week will be selected from the red group.”

  “Why this group?”

  “Can’t you see? Everybody here is the fittest and the strongest. Maybe they’re testing us with the fights and challenges to weed out the best for whatever they are planning. Some kind of elite organisation maybe?”

  Spartan considered her comments and although he doubted there was any kind of fancy organisation waiting for them he did agree with the system of selection. By taking the strongest survivors they would be receiving a steady stream of strong, fit, intelligent and healthy people. Maybe they were training them as Zealot troopers or perhaps something more insidious like eugenics or reproduction.

  “If you go, will you take me?”

  He didn’t hear her, he suddenly felt very tired. Some of the lights started to cut out until the entire area was lit by just a small number of dull yellow lights. As the light faded so the electronic red lights of the night vision systems started to warm up. It might look dark but Spartan was certainly under no illusions he could be seen and probably heard at any time.

  As he looked around open area he noticed a dark shape moving closer. He almost lifted his arms to strike when he heard Misaki speak again, this time she was almost touching his face. She must have moved around and directly blocked his line of sight.

  “Spartan...” she whispered.

 
He felt her cool skin against him and then her face touched his. He tried to adjust his position as their lips met, both falling from the wooden benches to the hard and uncomfortable floor. Spartan flat on his back and Misaki draped across him. He tried to get back up but she held him down.

  “Are you going to join them?” she said quietly.

  Spartan lay there, saying nothing, just breathing quietly. Not that he didn’t like Misaki where she was, it was just the last time anything like this had been back on the Santa Cruz with Teresa. As he lay there thinking of her and what she must be doing right now he completely forgot about the half-naked Misaki still straddled across him. With a sigh of discontent she lifted herself up and back into the darkness, leaving Spartan to his thoughts.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mechanical slave labour had been experimented with several times in the history of the Colonies. The most significant flirtations with the technology took place prior to the Great War and had led to three bloody riots and strikes by workers. The Confederacy after all was designed for its citizens and in the end a simple ban on machines that took the work of citizens was put in place. Even so, machines that could do jobs that humans could not were never outlawed and they were frequently used by the military. One reminder of this decision is some of the machine smashing festivals held by some families still on Kerberos.

  History of Slave Labour

  Commander Anderson stood against the wall, holding onto the rails as he looked at his prisoner. The man was locked in the brig, the smallest room in the entire ship and protected by ten centimetres of thickened metal all around. The man was still, looking back at the crew of the Tamarisk with the same level of interest that they held of him. Contrary to what he might think the Commander was no animal and he was almost certainly waiting for something violent and terrible to happen to him. Commander Anderson had spent a long time on the Rim and had experienced all kinds of crime and brutality but that had never changed his mind on physical torture, it had always been abhorrent to him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t use more creative ways to get information out of his prisoner.

  “Crap, Bishop, are you sure this is the best way to get there?” asked Teresa who stood a metre away and held onto the side in the same manner.

  “The route Kowalski gave us means we need to change velocity and heading at specific intervals. The normal accelerate, turn and slow down model ain’t gonna cut it today. Just listen out for the warning buzzer and hold on. The next change is due in seven minutes.”

  The route to Prometheus was unlike anything any of them had ever been on before. Both the ship and the computer systems were being pushed to the limits and they were all aware of the danger they would be in if the vessel missed one of the way points by even a few kilometres. As Teresa thought about the route she watched Anderson as he stared at the prisoner. The slender officer looked almost like a schoolboy with his trademark unkempt hair and freckled face. For a second she had doubts about whether he was the right man for a mission like this one. She had seen him in action though and he was easily capable of leadership and violence when the moment called for it.

  Teresa placed her hand over her mouth for a moment before straightening up.

  “You okay?” asked the Commander.

  “I’ll live, the trip is a bit rough.”

  “Watch yourself, throwing up in a vacuum ain’t pretty!”

  “Thanks, that helps!”

  Teresa glared at him and it didn’t take long for him to succumb and burst into laughter. The sounds echoed through the open spaces of the ship as it hurtled on its new and uncomfortable route. He pulled out the intercom and hit the general broadcast button.

  “Find yourselves somewhere comfortable to hole up, this trip is about to get bumpy.”

  * * *

  Spartan woke to find himself on the floor and with the most outrageous backache. The chamber was bathed in the dull light that their captors considered normal. Most of the other prisoners were stood up, looking around at the fuss in the open space between the cell areas. He started to get up but the pain forced him to stay down for a moment. At first he thought he might be injured but then he remembered the previous night, Misaki jumping on him and then falling to the ground. He moved slowly this time and managed to sit up as the pain started to subside.

  “Misaki?” he called, unable to see her.

  A siren sound echoed through the chamber and from the right the great shielded door that led back to the surface open to reveal a dozen guards and ten times that number of prisoners.

  “Holy shit, man, have you seen this?” asked one of the men.

  With a great effort Spartan got to his feet and hobbled over to the large barred doorway to watch the spectacle.

  “They’re like us, man, just like us!” cried a women in despair as more started shouting.

  “Where are they getting them and why isn’t somebody doing something about it?”

  “Fucking Confed leaving us out here!”

  “Hey! What have you done to help the Confederacy other than bitch and whine?” asked Spartan, his blood starting to get fired up. All his life he had heard the whining from bleeding heart liberals about one group being upset or offended but they never seemed to lift a finger to help anyone, except when it made them look good.

  “The Confederate military have died in their thousands to protect people like you. Maybe if more of you had been as angry a few months ago we could have crushed the insurgency and these scum before it got worse!”

  The rest of them kept quiet as they continued to watch the scores of people file down into the open space. Just as when they arrived, they started to receive their welcoming speech.

  “This room was empty when we arrived, right?” asked the woman, quickly forgetting what Spartan had said.

  “Yeah, so?” answered another.

  “So if it was empty, were we the first to get here?”

  “No. I’ve spoken to a few people here and this place has been running for months, maybe even years. The last red group must have transferred to the re-education programme or maybe they joined the rest of the prisoners if they weren’t strong enough.”

  “Or they were killed in the sick little arena games of theirs?” came a familiar voice.

  Spartan moved towards the sound, past the other prisoners before coming to two men, both seated in the corner.

  “Son of a bitch!” Spartan said with obvious pleasure in his voice.

  In front of him sat General Rivers and Marcus Keller, his two comrades from Kerberos.

  “Spartan, I see you’ve been pissing off the local girls again?” asked Marcus, the tall, strong looking German. His family were descended from one of the earliest colonial expeditions to Terra Nova, over three hundred years before. At least that is how he told the story, there were certainly very few German-speaking communities left now.

  Spartan turned to his left to see an angry looking Misaki trying to discreetly hide behind one of the other prisoners. He was confused, as he hadn’t done anything wrong, to the contrary he had been nothing if noble towards her. He held out his arms towards her, trying to indicate something, anything to her. She recoiled though and shifted back. He sighed and turned back to Marcus.

  “Right, you know me. I see you’ve both got your red armbands, welcome to the club.”

  General Rivers beckoned for him to sit down next to him on the corner bench.

  “I heard they sent you to the Governor. What did you find out?”

  “For starters one of the guards did this,” he said quietly, showing them his unlocked manacles. “Anyway, the Governor wants military trained people to join their side. He has detailed files on me, I assume he will have the same on you both too.”

  Marcus looked confused at his comment.

  “Don’t they already have enough people? From what I’ve seen the Zealots and their friends already have more than enough people to fight their wars.”

  “That’s what I thought, apparently not though, unless
it’s just some kind of scam to make us do something. They seem to be collecting people for some kind of epic projects. The only other option is that this is just a glorified extermination camp.”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “No way, man, I ain’t going to no bonfire!” he said angrily, shifting from side to side. General Rivers sat listening intently, taking in all the details before speaking.

  “What about this red band stuff? One of the women said they put you up against a Biomech? Where the hell did they find those things?”

  “Remember the capsules on the ship that brought us here, Sir? They must bring them here for training or something. I don’t know, all I know is that they don’t seem particularly worried about killing us just as long as enough of us keep working with the labour gangs or fighting their pets.”

  “I’m sure Confed is doing whatever they can to track us down, what concerns me is that if we didn’t know this place existed, then how in the hell will anybody find it now and connect it to our disappearance?”

  “You’re also assuming they think we are still alive. What if they just said we were executed or died in an accident? Confed has bigger things to worry about right now, Sir.”

  “Too bloody right it has. Half the colonies have seceded and those that are left are the smallest and least populated in the System. We’re gonna need a miracle just to survive this one, let alone actually fight back.” Marcus added in a firm tone.

  With a familiar sound the barred door slid open to reveal a group of guards. They spoke to one of the prisoners and then escorted him away. This time they didn’t leave immediately. The nearest guard spoke first.

  “Six more to join your little group,” he said as he pushed in another small band of haggard and angry looking people. “I have a have a special message from the Governor.”

  Reaching inside his combat vest he pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of him.

  “Today you will be split into three groups. Your test will be one of wit and intelligence, as well as strength. The group that takes the least casualties will be offered a place in our re-education programme. The rest will be returned here to await tomorrow’s challenge. The groups will consist of those of you with criminal backgrounds in one, Confed personnel in another and the third and final group made up of those of you who don’t fit into either group. Remember, we want only the fittest, strongest and most capable in our programme.”