Syndicate Wars: First Strike (Seppukarian Book 1)

by Kyle Noe

  A warm smile tugged at the corners of Luke’s mouth. “That’s all we can ask.”

  There were a few heartbeats of silence, and then Giovanni reached out impulsively to check on Luke’s wound. His finger brushed Luke’s swollen lip, and lingered.

  Luke startled, but he didn’t move the finger away.

  “I wanted … I wanted to say I’m sorry about that.”

  “S’okay,” Luke said, turning away. “You can make it up to me later.”

  The pair turned and stood in the darkness and silence, watching the sky fill with the glow from thousands of Syndicate ships soaring both downward out of the sky and back up into space.

  Chapter Fourteen: Orientation

  Back on the Syndicate Command Ship, the Marines were led down a corridor and into a dimly lit space where one entire wall appeared to be an undulating wave of liquid backlit by iridescent colors. The liquid coalesced into something more substantial, until it resembled a plasma screen.

  “Movie time,” Renner said, as metal chairs rose up out of the floor.

  “Please be seated,” Marin said.

  Quinn and the others took their seats, and Marin moved between and around them. Marin was close enough that Quinn could smell her musk, a strange meld of … what was it? Copper and burning wood? Her skin was luminous, her arms long and lean. She’d clearly been chosen for her seductive and calming nature that matched nicely with her tall stature and confidence. Every time she spoke, Quinn found herself wanting to believe the lies coming out of her mouth, but that’s what she was spouting, lies.

  Quinn wanted to scream out and ask Marin what kind of person would do what she was doing? What kind of human would sell their own race out to be the goddamn spokesperson for a band of galactic plunderers? Did they have leverage over her? Maybe a child or a parent that they were holding hostage, forcing Marin into service? Or was it something more basic, like riches?

  Perhaps they’d offered Marin the universe if she simply bent a knee and agreed to turn her back to her planet and her people. Just like the story Quinn remembered from Sunday school. The one about Lucifer offering Jesus all the kingdoms of the world if he’d just simply bow down before him.

  As Quinn was lost in her spiraling thoughts, Marin strode right past her. Close enough to touch, to grab, close enough that Quinn, with little effort, could snap out and latch her hands around Marin’s neck, bringing her knee up into the envoy’s chin, shattering teeth, severing her tongue maybe.

  Quinn’s eyes skipped to the right, and she saw the Syndicate soldiers standing solemnly at the back of the room. She realized she’d probably be shot down before she could finish the job. But she didn’t care.

  She tightened up, ready to launch, but then Marin shot her a gaze. A gaze that said ‘I know more than you do.’

  Quinn leaned back in her hard metal chair and accepted that she was outmatched. At least for the moment.

  The screen glowed and flashed to life, interrupting Quinn’s imaginings.

  “What are we watching?” Milo asked.

  “How about The Sound of Music?” Renner offered, causing some of the others to laugh.

  Marin stopped in front of the screen. She spun around and faced them. But she revealed no emotional expression whatsoever. All business. And luring.

  “The Potentate has asked me to show you the reasons why your services are invaluable.”

  “That’s another way of saying propaganda,” Renner said.

  Marin looked to Quinn. “Is he always like this?”

  Quinn nodded. “He’s the kind of Marine who complains about his MRE while he devours it and steals one from the guy next to him. Eating two ‘disgusting meals.’”

  Renner nodded and held up a hand. “I was diagnosed as a smartass at a very early age. When a nurse dropped a glass vial during my birth, my mother, without missing a beat, declared that ‘it wasn’t her, that she didn’t break it. It came that way.’”

  The Marines laughed. Quinn didn’t like the jokey, made-up story, but she got the meaning, and couldn’t help but smirk a little.

  “To which, I, as a mere newborn, replied, ‘Never retreat, never give up, never die without permission, for we Marines guard the pearly gates of Heaven.’” And Renner raised both fists in victory as if he’d just delivered them salvation. A hollow one, at least.

  Other Marines hooted and hollered. Even now, Renner was standing up. Resisting. The problem, in Quinn’s eyes, was that they weren’t resisting in a smart way. Only emotional. All she wanted was for Renner to shut his trap.

  Marin scowled at Renner and appeared to want to say more, put the smartass in his place, but images began flashing on the screen.

  Scenes of death and devastation, but from a different point of view. The shots were of Syndicate ships being blown out of the sky, Syndicate troops being blasted apart or mercilessly gunned down in streets and fields.

  “You see,” Marin said, fluttering her hand. “It wasn’t the Syndicate that was the provocateurs. The Potentate gave the order to engage only after being fired upon.”

  “That’s some bullshit,” Hayden hissed.

  More images on the screen. Cities lying partially in ruin. Armed packs of humans engaging in acts of unspeakable violence … against other humans. Communities waging war against each other in the aftermath of the Syndicate counterattack.

  Then the images shifted and techno music swelled over shots of Syndicate soldiers marching triumphantly down streets and across boulevards as civilians watched and waved at them.

  “Paging Leni Riefenstahl,” Milo said.

  “Who?” Renner asked.

  Milo waved his hand. “Another one of those pesky people from a book.”

  Quinn was one of the few to get the Riefenstahl reference. She sat there watching, and knew that it was indeed bullshit. Propaganda of the highest order. How difficult would it have been for the Syndicate, with all of its mind-shattering technology, to simply create everything that was being shown? Not very, she thought to herself.

  The images continued, graphic footage so intense that Quinn eventually had to turn away. The screen flickered off and the lights came up.

  “What you’ve just seen is the truth,” Marin said.

  “As you see it, Mrs. Goebbles?” offered Milo.

  Marin’s eyes pinched to focus. “The way that we see it is the way that it is. In helping us preserve the peace, you will not only be doing us a great service, but your fellow citizens of Earth as well.”

  “I’m sure they’ll greet us with open arms, chief,” Renner said.

  “Don’t you see that you’ll be helping to save the Earth? The violence that is occurring is not of the Syndicate’s making. It is the result of internecine conflict, a war raged by a self-styled resistance.”

  “So you want us to target the resistance?” Quinn asked.

  “The Potentate would like you to remove the obstacles to peace.”

  “That’s an awfully slippery answer, Boss,” Quinn replied, with disrespect dripping from her words.

  “It’s the only one I’ve been authorized to give at the moment.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Renner said.

  Marin kept her composure, then smiled with a look of delight. “And now you’ll be shown what your responsibilities will be.”

  Chapter Fifteen: No Rest for the Weary

  The Marines were soon shown the training room. It was like a gym, but one where if you didn’t finish your reps, you might actually get a bullet in the back. The thing was, though, these weren’t real weapons they were playing with. Only the Syndicate soldiers keeping watch over them from the walls held blasters that could do anything more than cause a welt like a paintball gun.

  It was tempting to laugh at the other Marines flinching from the stuns the practice weapons inflicted. But Quinn kept her composure and sobered her thoughts when a Syndicate soldier raised his blaster at a Marine who was making a run for the exit. The spacious room fell silent as everyone waited for death.
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  The Marine stopped and turned back to practicing. The Syndicate soldier lowered his blaster as if nothing had happened.

  The Syndicate was being serious. If the Marines obeyed, no matter how reluctantly, they would only be in danger from whomever the Syndicate sent them to fight against.

  But what happened next took everyone by surprise. Another Marine, sensing the opening and feeling weakness in the Syndicate’s lack of response, swung the butt of his practice rifle around and smashed a Syndicate soldier’s helmet. The defiant Marine snatched up the Syndicate soldier’s real blaster and pulled the trigger.

  “Now!” the defiant Marine shouted.

  But no one else joined in once they saw that the Syndicate soldier remained standing, despite the mashed up helmet. And the blaster didn’t fire when in the hands of the Marine. Reddened from embarrassment, the defiant Marine pulled the trigger again.

  The Marine tried to back off, but the Syndicate soldier he’d attacked had already recovered, snatched his blaster back as if annoyed by a pestering bug, and released a lone shot, obliterating the Marine in an instant.

  A second later, the incident faded almost as fast as it had begun. Power and force had been demonstrated, in a practice shooting range of all things. And Quinn’s attention was drawn away as well by a forceful and commanding bellicose voice.

  “The alien weapons are beyond your understanding,” the voice said. “They’re linked to your biometrics and it’s impossible for them to be used against their maker.”

  The voice belonged to a human, a man who appeared to be of high station, based on demeanor, stature, and a calmness about him like he knew he was in charge. He was in the middle of his years and dressed in what looked like a military uniform that could barely contain his hulking frame.

  His bulk, however, was offset by his fine, almost feminine features. Unlike the Marines, with their gnarled digits and faces that appeared to have been shattered and reset multiple times, this man didn’t appear to have broken so much as a nail to the extent he’d ever been in combat. Yet, he sported a fearsome beard that reached his broad chest.

  Quinn knew the type. The type was her father, and she knew this guy wasn’t messing around. She began to fear for the life of the resilient Marine.

  “I’m General Aames,” the man said as he handed a Syndicate Blaster to another Marine. “I’m here to help you survive, remember that. Try again. But with the safety off this time.”

  The Marine shook his head no.

  Aames grimaced, as he hovered over the defenseless but armed Marine. “You gonna put your big boy pants on and take a shot, or what?”

  Quinn felt herself stepping forward to help, but knew she could do nothing. The Marine lifted the blaster.

  “Point it at one of your fellow Marines and fire,” Aames ordered.

  “But sir,” the Marine begged.

  “I said FIRE,” Aames shouted.

  The Marine closed his eyes and took a shot at the group of Marines. But nothing happened.

  “See,” Aames said. “We account for traitors. Now shoot yourself for being a weak link.”

  The Marine dropped the blaster. His singlet then began to burn, creating a hissing sound, and then exploded, killing the Marine.

  “Your exo-armor is also linked to your biometrics with fail-safes built in. They will explode if you betray the Syndicate or if your heartbeat stops, and there is no turning back once you voluntarily enlist in The Human Marine Brigade. Commanded by me.”

  Aames puffed out his chest. “Disobeying,” Aames continued, “is as wrong a choice as attacking the Syndicate. You are Syndicate now. The sooner you get that through your thick skulls, the more likely you’ll make it through this alive. Unless you all want to die pointless deaths like these two idiots. Obey. Do not attack or betray the Syndicate. Pull your heads out of your asses, get your shit squared, and you just may live to fight another day. Do you copy that?”

  A few murmurs.

  “DO YOU COPY THAT, MARINES!” General Aames bellowed.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” the Marines said, in unison.

  “You will not fail me,” Aames said. “Potentate Benno will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity and end human suffering and self-destruction. He rules by the grace of the universe and is firm, yet just.. He asks only for your loyalty, which I suggest you give freely. If you fail him or me, things will not end well for you.”

  An eerie silence swept over the practice shooting range.

  But Aames continued. “You will help your people by fighting them. Putting down their basest urges.” He finished and marched out of the practice range, now filled with more silence and fear.

  Envoy Marin stepped forward and tried to force a smile, but couldn’t.

  “That’s enough training for today. You should exit the conditioning range now, and head to the Medical Bay for your enhancement, which will most certainly improve your survivability. And from the looks of it, you need all the help you can get. Once completed, you’re ordered to settle in to your assigned squad bay and await orders. Before you go, however, please be advised that there are certain rules and codes of conduct aboard the Syndicate Command Center. You are not allowed to touch Syndicate members, including humans promoted to Syndicate rank, such as General Ames—whom you’ve just met. The penalty for the first offense is loss of limb. The penalty for the second offense is death by beheading. There is no third.”

  Before Marin could finish, everyone began shoving and pushing their way out. Not believing any of this to be real and still in shock from the overwhelming defeat.

  Marin tried to give them one last bit of advice to survive the new order. “Your Exo-Armor will be waiting for you, as The Foreseeing Syndicate already knows which barracks you'll choose, and you should feel privileged to have such an honor bestowed upon you.”

  Milo, Renner, and Quinn were still listening, and the last to leave the Hall. They took their time leaving, still gathering intel on their situation. Quinn looked to Milo to see if he had a take on things. He only shrugged a ‘no.’

  “You will also be receiving recalibration of your combat training to fit The Syndicate’s requirements immediately,” Marin said. “You should get the rest of your Marines in line, or they’ll suffer the same fate as these idiots.” She shot a look at the remains of the dead Marines. “And please remember, you’ve been chosen because you have no place in human society anymore. They won’t accept you. They will reject you. You are rejects. But The Syndicate is giving you a second chance. Welcome to the First Marine Dreg Brigade!”

  An awkward moment filled the room.

  But then Renner piped up with a loud, “Oohrah.”

  Marin smiled. “I said … welcome, Dregs!”

  “Oohrah!” the remaining conscripted said, in unison.

  Chapter Sixteen: Giovanni Steps Up

  Giovanni was in a deep sleep when a hand grabbed him. He startled, reaching for a weapon, but calmed at the sight of Luke’s face, inches from his own. Past him, the open door showed the stars, dark of night, and what looked like comets shooting by in the distant sky, but were really Syndicate Ships scurrying back and forth between the planet and their Command Ship. He sat up now, confused.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Luke said.

  Giovanni glared. “You couldn’t possibly.”

  “This is the only way we can be certain they won’t see us.”

  “Training in the goddamn darkness?”

  Luke nodded. “You said you were up for a challenge.”

  “Sure … but maybe after some beauty sleep.”

  “You don’t need it,” Luke said, with a wink, and then pulled the blankets away as he headed for the door.

  “Seriously?” Giovanni graoned. “Now?”

  “Seriously,” Luke said, pausing in the doorway. “Now.”

  With a heavy sigh, Giovanni pushed himself from the bed, his joints cracking and his muscles aching. He threw on his clothes and shoes, then followed Luke out.
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  Not long after, Giovanni, Luke, and Calee stood before forty resistance fighters, almost equally divided between men and women. Some of the assembled were general-purpose troops from the base, others local soldiers, including one or two of the indigenous special forces commandos he’d seen earlier. On the ground before them were sections of body armor and weapons.

  For an instant, Giovanni’s resolve faltered. He heard the sound of the jungle creatures and wondered how ridiculous it was to think that this group of fighters would ever be able to mount an operation against the Syndicate. But then he took in the stares of the fighters before him. Their bodies were soft, but their eyes were hard.

  They had the same look he’d seen in his fellow Marines back at the beginning of basic training, the gaze of a person who’s been cornered and is now willing to do whatever it takes to fight back.

  “Leave those there,” Giovanni said, back stiffening, gesturing to the guns and gear.

  “Why the hell would we do that?” Calee asked.

  Giovanni smiled. “Because we won’t need them where we’re going.”

  ***

  Soon they were making good time, Giovanni and Luke leading the way as they ran side-by-side down a jungle footpath. The first stirrings of light daggered down through the canopy overhead. They crossed a planked bridge that spanned a roaring stream and stopped in front of a windfall, a section in the jungle littered with the carcasses of downed trees.

  “This is where we start,” Giovanni said.

  Before Luke could utter a word, Giovanni had slashed forward. He mounted a tree and began scrabbling up it, then jumped to another tree and hurtled over to a thick branch until he was maneuvering across the deadfall.

  The others followed, fighting to maintain their balance, clumsy and hopeless. Giovanni grabbed branches, pulling them back and letting them go, forcing the resistance fighters to duck and jump and maintain their balance—just as they might have to do when confronting the Syndicate and its mechanized killing machines.