Syndicate Wars: The Resistance (Seppukarian Book 2)

by Kyle Noe

  The Potentate did his best to reconstruct all the small things that had led to this moment and then, overwhelmed by the enormity of what lay ahead, he brushed off the thoughts and briskly moved past the areas where his troops were planning and preparing to take the battle to the resistance.

  If only he could tell them the truth. They’d see he was the true hero. Their salvation if they’d have him. But they never would. Destined to repeat their mistakes.

  He stopped in front of the massive metal doors on the Mech Bay and waved a hand. A scanner read the signature on his palm, and the doors opened to reveal an open space that comprised nearly one-quarter of the entire ship.

  In prior loops, in previous moments in time, the Syndicate had gone with a smaller bay, but mistakes had been made and lessons learned. The resistance was crafty, and the conditions on Earth sometimes inhospitable to the machines, so they’d decide to build more of them. Many more. As a result, they needed a larger space to work in.

  The Potentate walked between rows of thousands of shimmering attack drones like a pilgrim through a great forest. There were the unmanned spider drones that patrolled the skies and the eavesdropping ‘bots that slithered, snake-like, over the ground. Then there were the Replicants (drones that could alter their shapes and multiply), and Reapers, a favorite of the Potentate, a piece of engineering divinity that stood fifteen feet tall.

  He paused briefly to admire a row of Reaper drones that resembled death itself. The machines had a veil of metal that covered a portion of the turret, resembling a hood, while an enormous metal scythe dangled at its side over a pair of heavy piston-like legs. The Syndicate was well aware of how fragile the human psyche was, so the Reapers had been painted blood red and fangs scrawled on their facades which also housed two heavy chain guns and dual cylinder pods filled with twenty-four flesh-defiling rockets.

  Above the weapons and under a section of the metal hood were two bubble tops, one on the front of the machine and another on the back where a pair of flight controllers sat. The front controller was responsible for the weapons system, and the aft controller was responsible for maneuvering the machine across the field of battle—though either could assume full control of the machine if the other was neutralized.

  The Reapers could operate in wet conditions as well as cold, could initiate short, sustained bursts of flight, and could operate for a thousand miles before their fuel cells needed recharging. All of this was because of prior mistakes. There had been other missions before, thousands of them, and each time the Syndicate gleaned new information about the limitations of their own weaponry and the tactics of the resistance.

  The Potentate stopped and perused the chain guns on a Reaper. Soon, he would be sending out his mechanical army to hunt down the young girl, that one that he’d come to know would play such an important role in what was to come. This time, things would be different. This time he’d find the girl and bring her in safely and avoid the tragedies of the past. There’d already been too many mistakes, too many errors, and too much wasted time.

  “There is beauty in them, isn’t there?” a female voice said.

  The Potentate turned to see Marin watching him.

  “The machines, I mean,” she said, meandering forward.

  “The future will be built upon the platform of unmanned warfare,” he replied. “It’s humanity’s only true salvation.”

  She stopped and held his look.

  “The spies located the girl, Samantha, but she’s escaped.”

  How many times had the Potentate heard these words? How many times had Marin or someone in her position told him that Quinn’s daughter would be located and brought into the fold peacefully? The Potentate could almost read Marin’s mind, and he was disappointed when she whispered her next words.

  “This time, I promise you it’s different, sir. We were able to prevent her from linking up with the resistance in full.”

  “Progress,” the Potentate said. While pawns like Marin were vaguely aware of events repeating themselves—a sensation akin to déjà vu—they were unable to see what the Potentate saw, i.e., how everything fit together.

  “We’ll find her and bring her in this time,” Marin added, with a smile.

  The Potentate nodded, and Marin looked at him uneasily.

  “Do you think her mother’s lying?” the Potentate asked.

  “About the events in the laboratory?” Marin asked.

  The Potentate nodded.

  “The neural scanners suggest that her frontal and temporal lobes fire more frequently than the others. This would seem to suggest a strong predilection toward right and wrong.”

  The Potentate took this in.

  “Do you think that’s responsive to my question, Marin?”

  “Not fully, sir.”

  “What’s your gut tell you?”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  The Potentate nodded.

  “And General Aames? What does he think?”

  “He asked to speak with you, sir. He has some evidence that he believes you should be back-briefed on.”

  “Tell him to meet me on the observation deck.”

  Marin nodded and left as the Potentate remained behind, looking for a moment, very small and insignificant in the menagerie of drones and killing machines.

  JUST AS HE’D done in a hundred time loops before, Potentate Benno met with General Aames in the rotating observation deck—the “Dynamic Tower,” as it was called by some—that comprised the apex of the mother ship. The deck was the length and width of a football field and had been designed in such a way to rotate a maximum of twenty feet per minute, or one full rotation in approximately one-hundred and eighty minutes. Walls of translucent material provided a God’s eye view of the Earth and surrounding celestial bodies. General Aames was standing silently, peering down at Earth as the Potentate arrived.

  “Having second thoughts?” the Potentate said.

  General Aames reacted, spinning on his heels. “Sir?”

  The Potentate pointed at Earth.

  “About coming into our fold, General. Do you ever regret the decision to throw in with us?”

  General Aames pursed his lips. “It might be unnatural for a man to answer that in the negative, sir.”

  “Yes, it might,” answered the Potentate.

  “Sometimes, I’ll admit I hear a voice,” Aames said. “It is a small one, but it does ask me how I can do what I do.”

  “And do you respond to it, General?”

  “On occasion.”

  “And what do you say?”

  Aames considered this, then said, “I say violent change is the essence of human history.”

  The Potentate had heard the same line dozens of times, but it still brought pleasure to him. He thought it was one of the most cynical things he’d ever heard uttered, but also, perhaps, the truest. If not for violent change brought about by the anatomically modern humans some forty-thousand years ago, he might be dealing with a more primitive version of General Aames, for instance.

  “You talk of violence, and yet, the period directly before we interceded in the affairs of your world was one of the planet’s most peaceful, isn’t that right?”

  General Aames nodded. “Largely because the nations of the world had stopped focusing on economic assets that were material. Crops and precious minerals and things that could be easily obtained by waging war. What mattered most was knowledge.”

  “Ideas?”

  Another nod from General Aames. “It’s almost impossible to obtain knowledge through violence.”

  “Which is why the most dangerous real estate in the galaxy is the six inches between a human’s ears.”

  General Aames sighed and nodded. “It’s interesting that you would say that, sir, because I believe we may have a problem.”

  The Potentate looked up, and General Aames clapped his hands.

  Swirling spirals of green light appeared in the space that lay between General Aames and the Potentate. The lig
ht slowly began coalescing into shapes, images of men and women doing great violence to each other back in the ruins of Earth. “Not all of the Marines were put down, sir.”

  “I assumed a few had survived to join the resistance.”

  General Aames pointed to the images. There were overhead shots of cities and raggedy groups of fighters driving across deserts, combat-running between buildings, and creeping through the undergrowth of forests and woods. For an instant, the faces of resistance fighters became visible, on the road north from their jungle hideout. These images faded, replaced with shots of various silver objects concealed in myriad spots across the globe.

  “I believe something is underway, sir. I believe there is a plot, albeit one that is in its infancy.”

  “You have direct evidence?”

  “I don’t need direct evidence,” General Aames said, clapping his hands as the images and light faded. “I can feel it in my belly.”

  The Potentate turned from General Aames. He was deep in contemplation, fighting to recall all the different ways he’d reacted to this information in the past. There’d been acts of violence hundreds of times, intimidation, countless offers of accommodation, and none of it had succeeded. This time would be indeed be different, the Potentate thought. This time, he would do nothing directly. He would not act against the putative wrongdoers, but rather, would sow confusion by sending the Marines back down to Earth on another mission. In doing so, he hoped to prod them to action, to force them to take steps that would alert him to whatever plan might be afoot.

  “I appreciate you bringing all of this to my attention, General.”

  “What do you want me to do about it, sir?”

  “Nothing directly, at the moment.”

  “But if we do nothing, the resistance might have a chance to grow in power.”

  “That is precisely what I’m hoping for,” the Potentate replied, with a nod.

  The Potentate pointed to the map of the United States. He reached out a finger and swirled it in the air, highlighting a city where a silver object, another temporal totem, had been concealed. It was a location they had not explored in previous loops.

  “What city is that?”

  “Las Vegas, sir. It’s where we believe the resistance has a hidden underground command center and weapons cache.”

  “I want you to send the Marines to Las Vegas to remove the cache, General. Not the individuals mind you, just the weapons.”

  General Aames nodded and saluted before exiting the observation deck, leaving the Potentate behind, face inscrutable under his morphing helmet as the Earth passed by under him. He was secure in the notion that he was taking the right steps.

  Yes, Marin was right, he thought to himself, this time would almost certainly be different. This time, they’d find a way to break the resistance. He would be seen as being on the right side of history this time. Too many times, even the Syndicate had turned on his rule. Failing to see the long-term objective. Potentate Benno had even allowed members of his top brass access to all the data before, only to be betrayed. But this time, only he controlled the information, the most important commodity in the Universe.

  This time was different because of self-sacrifice. He was sure of it. If one thing changes, too many people might act against their normal nature, making them unpredictable. But if the key players he’d identified through the centuries fell into place this time, he would succeed.

  4

  WANTED

  After thirty minutes in the mess hall, Quinn split from Cody and made her way back to the Marines’ quarters. She was surprised to hear music warbling from the room as she neared it, along with gales of laughter and snatches of boisterous conversation.

  Quinn entered the room, and everyone assembled inside turned and cheered her. Renner was holding what looked like beer, pointing to the speakers where Quinn recognized the song as one from old Earth, Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.

  Renner grooved to the beat, trading looks with Quinn.

  “Where the hell did you get the tunes?” she asked.

  “Tapped into a radio satellite,” he replied, grinning. “One of the few things the Syndicate didn’t destroy.”

  Milo nudged Quinn and handed her a beer.

  “It’s the real deal,” Milo said, holding his beer up. “Seven-dozen tall, cool ones were sent down from on high.”

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked, mustering a smile.

  “A mission well done, Marine,” Hayden said, patting Quinn on the shoulder.

  “You’re getting to be such a bad-ass down below, Quinn, that the lifers are putting a bounty on your head,” Renner said, grabbing a tablet from a table.

  He held the tablet up to reveal a photo taken from the mission, a crude ‘Wanted Poster’ with Quinn’s image.

  “They’ve been popping up in NYC,” Hayden said. “This one was hanging from a street lamp in New York.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, taking a slug from her beer.

  “At the very least, it’ll let people know that you’re still alive,” Milo offered.

  “Yeah, alive and a traitor,” said a booming voice.

  Quinn looked past Milo to a Marine named Harlan she’d seen a time or two before. He was from another unit and was built like a linebacker, nearly bald with an omnipresent sneer and a Fu-Manchu mustache.

  “I’m just doing my job,” Quinn said.

  Harlan’s gaze narrowed. “Yeah, with a little too much gusto for some of us.”

  Quinn could see five other Marines standing behind Harlan. Quinn had heard Harlan and his Marines were essentially flight risks and not permitted to leave the command ship. She assumed it would only be a matter of time before they fucked up and were put down. Harlan had a point, of course, and Quinn was ashamed that she’d broken and agreed to take up arms against the others.

  At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to kill the tunes and scream to the Marines and let them know that there might be a solution to their predicament. That Cody was busy uncovering some riddle sent back in time from a powerful force, a mystery that might help them to unlock the secrets of the Syndicate. But something gnawed at her, the fear that she couldn’t trust them.

  After all, how the hell had the Syndicate team that she’d killed gotten onto her trail to begin with anyway? Had one of the Marines tipped them off? Was it Harlan or maybe even Milo? Or was there another spy in their midst, a prisoner or fellow Marine she didn’t even know about who’d been turned?

  Not wanting to cause a disturbance, she turned away from Harlan and crossed the room as Milo followed.

  Milo angled a thumb back in Harlan’s direction. “Don’t listen to him. You can take the jar out of the head, but not the head out of the jar.”

  “Worst Marine joke I’ve ever heard,” Quinn said.

  “Gets the point across, though. That guy’s a schmuck.”

  She smiled and looked back at the other Marines, drinking, enjoying the music. “At the very least, the boys are enjoying themselves.”

  “Renner said some Syndicate honchos even promised to procure him a lady friend for the evening on account of our batting a thousand when it comes to operations,” Milo replied.

  “And?” she said, swapping a look with Milo.

  “And I asked him how long it would take to inflate her.”

  Quinn fought off a smirk.

  “Course he wasn’t offended by that,” Milo seconded.

  “Course not.”

  They shared a moment.

  “You been gone a long time,” Milo whispered. “I mean you got back from the mission and just went AWOL on us.”

  “Got a little separation anxiety, Milo?”

  “Just concerned, that’s all.”

  “Well, I was being interrogated if you must know.”

  “About the episode with Doctor Cody?”

  Her face fell. “You heard?”

  He nodded and took her aside. “Word is, you took out fifteen Syndic
ate soldiers, lady.”

  “The word is wrong,” she said.

  “So, how come you’re alive to talk about it?”

  “It was an accident, Milo.”

  “An accident, huh?”

  Milo nursed his beer. He looked like he wanted to say more, but Quinn’s expression told him to drop it, and so he did.

  They moved back over to the music, and Quinn suspected that nothing would ever be like this moment again. She and Cody had set in motion a series of events that would likely alter everything that was to come from that day forward. Indeed, even though their story about how the accident occurred hadn’t been challenged, it was only a matter of time before some scrap of evidence turned up to call into question what they’d told Marin.

  And when that happened, Quinn prayed that she would be in a better position to do something more vigorous about it. She had no idea what form that action might take, but errant thoughts began coalescing into something more substantive as she watched Renner, Hayden, and the other Marines toss back their beer and dance to the pulsing beat of the music.

  5

  A SINGLE SHOT

  In the bleak light of day, Samantha emerged from her duckhole on the other side of the burned-out bus. The men and women, the resistance fighters she’d joined up with after leaving Detwyler behind (giving him Zeus, her toy robot, as a going away present), were all dead. Lying smeared across the blacktop a half mile away, their bodies gray and bloated and swarming with fat-bellied flies.

  The Syndicate had killed them. The bastards had discovered that the resistance had the ability to hack their drones and changed whatever signals or frequencies they operated on. Samantha had found out the hard way only a few hours earlier. A Swan drone had attacked the armored SUV she’d been riding in, and she’d been unable to commandeer it.

  The drone ran them off the road and strafed the stragglers as they piled out of the crippled machine. It was only by a minor—and horrific—miracle that Samantha had survived at all. Crowded between four resistance fighters, she’d been blown back off the road and concealed by their corpses in a shallow ditch.