Syndicate Wars: The Resistance (Seppukarian Book 2)

by Kyle Noe

  Quinn grabbed a hamburger.

  “Wouldn’t if I were you,” Renner said.

  Quinn cast a look at him.

  “That meat there is cultured,” Renner said, grabbing a fat yellow banana.

  “Which means what, Renner? That it’s got good manners?”

  “Nope. It was grown in a friggin’ lab,” he continued, peeling the banana, biting off the tip.

  “So was that banana.”

  He looked at it, still munching a portion of the tip.

  “‘Course,” Quinn added, leaning in close to him, “I hear there are some of those that aren’t manufactured.”

  “Yeah?” Renner replied, staring at the banana. “If they don’t come from a test tube, where the hell do they get them from?”

  “Alien penises.”

  He waited for her to smile, but when she didn’t, he swallowed hard. “I done worse,” he said, with a shrug.

  Quinn sat at a circular table, surrounded by Hayden, Milo, and Renner, munching while patriotic propaganda videos played on wall screens, the same terrible electronica piped through overhead speakers.

  “I’ve been doing some snooping,” Milo said, under his breath, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  “What’ve you found?” Quinn replied, staring down at her food.

  “They’ve got fourteen ships.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Simple math. I walk around at night counting them.”

  “This is most definitely ground zero,” she replied. “The command ship.”

  Milo nodded slowly, eyes darting for any sign of snoopers.

  “By my calculation, they’ve got one-hundred thousand men under arms.”

  “How many drones?”

  “Undetermined,” Milo replied.

  The other Marines heard this and looked over. Wary of being overheard, they played along, whispering softly.

  “A hundred-thousand? Bullshit,” Renner hissed, tussling with the wrapper on a power bar. “How the hell did we get our asses kicked by such a small force?”

  “Simple,” Milo answered. “Technology.”

  “How big’s the resistance?” asked Hayden.

  “Bigger than the Syndicate.”

  “All they need is some guidance,” Quinn said.

  “And weapons,” added Hayden.

  “What happens if we join up with them?” she asked.

  There were a few seconds of silence, and then Quinn felt a vibration in her pocket. The Pez dispenser that Cody had given her was thrumming. If he was right, that meant some agent of the Syndicate was nearby and listening. Her eyes roamed the room, taking in the faces of other Marines and prisoners, some she knew, and others she didn’t. Any of them could be a spy. She shared a long look with Milo, and he read something in them because his demeanor immediately changed.

  “The whole thing is pipe dreams, Quinn,” Milo eventually said. “One false move, one attempt to circumvent the Syndicate’s stuff, and boom, you’re dead.”

  “You’re right,” she answered, the sensation from the Pez dispenser ceasing.

  “Okay, so I got a question for you mutts,” Renner said. “What ever happened to the one we left behind? The one who was escaping up the mountainside. What happened to Giovanni?”

  Nobody had an answer for that.

  AN HOUR LATER, Quinn and the Marines were engaged in a training exercise down on one of the lower levels of the command ship, simulated combat, which involved the Marines charging across a holographic battlefield where they engaged both resistance fighters and crudely-built battle drones.

  Quinn was on edge emotionally, yet supremely at ease as she led the others on a charge down across a holographic town that was heavy with well-armed resistance fighters clad in brown camouflage. The fighting was incredibly realistic, the Syndicate having the ability to replicate the sights, sounds, and even the smells of real warfare.

  The funk of cordite perfumed the air as Quinn ducked behind a burned-out battle drone. She used hand gestures to signal to Renner and Milo who dropped to their bellies. One moved to her left, the other to her right, as Quinn turned and stood and hammered a resistance position with her Fusion rifle.

  Hayden brought up the rear, muscling up a rocket launcher which he used to incinerate half the town. The images soon faded, and in the air between the Marines appeared statistics. Specifically, the number of enemy KIA, the length of battle, and the losses sustained by the Marines.

  Renner pointed to the stats which showed he’d gunned down the most resistance fighters. “Hot damn, I won!” he shouted.

  Milo removed his helmet. “You do know those are our fellow citizens, right?”

  Renner shrugged. “If it’s the enemy it’s down, brother.”

  The lights snapped back on, and the Marines shouldered their weapons, barely having broken a sweat. Quinn moved across the ‘battlefield,’ which was a raised dais about thirty yards long and wide, not unlike an extended stage at a movie studio. She heard sounds and shouts coming from the room next door and shuttled over to see another training room, this one filled with Syndicate soldiers.

  Unlike the battlefield used by the Marines, this one was very real. Quinn watched in amazement as dozens of Syndicate soldiers faced off against mechanized killing machines, including two large Reaper drones. It appeared live ammunition was being used as several of the soldiers were cut down by fire from the drones’ chain guns. She watched the soldiers crumple and fall, heard the whine of the rounds from the drones’ gun bounce off the ground and thud into the blue ballistic gel that coated the walls, the ceiling, preventing the ammunition from escaping the room.

  She’d seen the gel at work back down at one of the Syndicate firing ranges and marveled at its ability to stop even high-velocity and explosive rounds.

  Milo sidled up, watching the fighting.

  He gestured at the Syndicate soldiers peppering the drones with live ammo. “How come they get to use the good stuff?”

  “Benefits of being on the right team.”

  He grinned. “I thought we were all on the same side now?”

  Her eyes found his. “If you believe that, I’ve got some lovely waterfront property to sell you in North Dakota.”

  The fighting grew intense, drawing their attention back, and Quinn was surprised at how poorly the Syndicate soldiers maneuvered to take on the drones.

  “How the hell did these guys beat us?” she asked.

  “They had the numbers, sort of, and the tech,” Milo said.

  “Can you imagine what they could do if they actually knew how to fight?”

  Milo snorted. “What? You gonna show ‘em what to do?”

  A strange smile splashed Quinn’s face. In a flash, she was on the move, running away from Milo as he shouted for her to stop. She hopped up onto the raised battle platform and grabbed a Fusion rifle from a downed Syndicate soldier.

  Spinning, she ducked under the outthrust arm of a Syndicate drone and weaved between startled Syndicate soldiers. The drones opened fired and Quinn dove forward, combat-rolling into a foxhole where she measured her breaths.

  She heard the whine and click of the drones, felt the ground tremor as they crashed toward her. Quinn counted to eight, and then she vaulted ahead and caught one of the drones by surprise. She was too quick for its machine-gun barrels which rotated around, but were unable to track her.

  Thundering behind the machine, she caught sight of the bubble top where an alien driver was situated. She had a clean shot, so she raised her rifle, finger easing around the trigger. She felt the energy welling up inside the rifle, the force that would cause it to explode in her face if she tried to use it against the Syndicate.

  For an instant, Quinn lost heart. It would be so easy to pull the trigger she thought. So easy to embrace the darkness and not have to worry about the impossibility of trying to turn the tables on the Syndicate. But then she realized she’d never been a quitter, and she’d be damned before she gave up on her daughter. She reache
d inside her emotions, thought of Samantha, and drew strength to face down death. Upon rising, she looked into the barrels on the drone’s guns and no longer felt any fear. Unfortunately, the barrels had swung in her direction and were aimed, point-blank. Quinn lowered her gun, and Milo tackled her as—

  BRAT! BRAT! BRAT!

  The drone fired its guns, the rounds wavering the air directly over Quinn’s and Milo’s heads. The two hit the ground, and then Milo dragged Quinn to her feet. The two ran raggedly across the battlefield, covering their heads as rounds from the various combatants hissed and whined. They dove off the raised deck and scurried off to the side toward a canopy that was out of eyesight from the combatants. Quinn lay on the ground, out of breath. Milo looked over at her, and she could read the white-hot anger in his eyes. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but what the mother fuck was that?”

  “I… I’m sorry.”

  “We are so far beyond sorry,” Milo said.

  “I wanted to test out a theory.”

  “Which one? The ‘let’s see how long it takes a mech drone to kill me’ theory?”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. “I wanted to see if I had the guts to do it, and now I know. I’m ready now,” she whispered.

  “What are you talking about, Quinn?”

  “I am totally ready to die.”

  Milo deflated. “Remind me not to save you next time.”

  He moved to stand, and she blurted out, “Cody found a way around it.”

  Milo’s brows converged. “Way around what?”

  “The alien technology. Whatever controls their weapons.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Do I look like I am?”

  “Jesus, Quinn, when were you planning on telling me this?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Okay, so am I to assume that this has something to do with the incident in the lab?”

  She nodded. “We killed several Syndicate soldiers and that alien, the one named Larry.”

  “I never liked that son-of-a-bitch.”

  “He was a spy and was trying to stop us from decoding the messages in these silver objects.”

  “Do you know how crazy this sounds? I mean, even crazy for you, which is saying something.”

  She reached out a hand and touched his arm. “I just need you to trust me on this.”

  “Says the woman who rarely trusts anyone with anything,” Milo said.

  “I’m trying to change that.”

  “So, when will you explain more?”

  “When the time is right.”

  A siren began wailing and Quinn and Milo rose. They knew by now what that meant. It was time for a briefing by General Aames.

  GENERAL AAMES WAS STALKING the space that lay between the far wall and the long table lit by a holographic map of Earth. The lights dimmed as soon as Quinn and the other Marines entered the debriefing room.

  “Be seated, Marines.”

  Functional chairs rose up out of the floor, and Quinn and the others sat.

  “We’ve become aware of some developments back on Earth over the last few hours,” the General said.

  “Before or after we left last?” Renner asked.

  “Stifle that,” General Aames barked, rising to his full height. The General’s face glowed in the green holographic light. His index finger eased out, and he began trawling through information on the holographic maps, twirling his finger so that his POV—and that of the Marines—plunged down in the concrete canyons of a large city.

  “I recognize some of that city,” Milo said. “It’s Vegas.”

  Quinn had never been there before, but she recognized a few of the common landmarks. The Stratosphere Tower, the Strip, the fountains at the Bellagio. Some of these were in ruins, particularly the blacktop of the Strip, which looked like it had been bombed several times.

  “Indeed, it is Las Vegas,” General Aames said. “Our intel is reporting that a significant portion of the resistance leadership is meeting in a chamber hidden in one of the city’s underground passages. They’re there to conduct an inventory, a review of an enormous, underground weapons cache.”

  “You want us to surveil them, sir?” asked Hayden.

  “We want you to liquidate them and destroy the weapons,” the General said, in response.

  Hayden stood and shook his head. “We ain’t never been a black-bag team.”

  “You’ll do as you’re ordered, soldier.”

  “I’m a Marine, General,” Hayden said. “Not a soldier. If you were one of us, you’d know the distinction.”

  General Aames clapped his hands, and the holographic images vanished, and the lights came up. The General pulled a small pistol from his pocket, a piece of alien weaponry that shifted, molding itself to fit the grooves of his hand.

  “I’m not scared of dying,” Hayden said.

  “I wouldn’t think of killing you, Sergeant,” the General replied. “What would happen is that your memories would be wiped clean, every single one of them. And in their place? Images implanted by the Syndicate, the worst fucking things you can imagine. Nightmares that would drive a strong man insane. But you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. No, they’d lock you in an immersion chamber full of water, and there you’d bob, day and night, bombarded by those things for decades, calling out for death. Until you become an organic but obedient ‘mind’ for a mech. Like the others.”

  Quinn expected Hayden to throw a punch, but he didn’t. Instead, the big man stiffened, and his hands clenched and then he smiled.

  “When this is all over, General, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

  “I have heard that at least six times in my miserable little life, Sergeant.”

  “And?”

  “And here I stand.”

  Hayden didn’t react, and Quinn instantly knew that it would be a mistake not to go back down to Earth. It was a chance to operate beyond the prying eyes of the Syndicate. A chance to possibly test out Cody’s theory. A chance to confide in the others.

  “We understand your position, General, and are ready to move out on your call!” she thundered, smacking the heels of her boots together and saluting.

  General Aames took this in and smiled, the other Marines looking on, surprised.

  “Excellent, Sergeant Quinn. Grab your gear and prepare for infiltration at thirteen-hundred hours.”

  “THAT ASSHOLE GENERAL is full of shit,” Hayden growled, as Quinn shadowed him into the armory. “If they gave the bastard an enema they could bury ‘im in a matchbox.”

  The others laughed, but Quinn remained silent.

  “Why were you so hot and heavy to conduct another op?” Milo asked.

  “I have my reasons,” she said.

  Hayden flung her an icy look. “You getting soft on me, Sergeant?”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m just trying to find a way out of this.”

  QUINN EASED on her form-fitting armor and grabbed her rifle and battle helmet as voices squawked over the intercom. In seconds, the Marines were filtering back down through the inner corridor toward the loading bay where a clutch of gliders were being prepped for lift off. Quinn checked her HUD as an order of battle was downloaded. Since the team would be dropped into the desert that wreathed Las Vegas, there would be no need for space diving this time.

  She entered the glider and moved toward the forward cockpit where Hayden was standing. The big man was inspecting a broad bank of computer gear and what looked like the flight controls. He heard her footfalls and looked back.

  “Get lost?” she asked, with respect.

  He shook his head. “Just taking a trip down memory lane.”

  “You used to be a space fighter pilot in another life?”

  “Helicopters. Had a thing for them back in the day.” He turned and gestured at the controls. “‘Course, this one’s autonomous, flying by wire, A.I., etc., though it’s got some stuff I recognize. Cyclic stick, anti-torque pedals, what looks like a manual thruste
r.”

  The controls began powering up remotely as Hayden stepped back from them. Overhead lights began blinking.

  “Apparently, we are not free to move about the cabin,” Quinn said.

  “Bastards better watch themselves, or I’m likely to manually override their controls,” Hayden said.

  “You could do that?”

  He winked at her. “Anything’s possible.”

  9

  AN UNEXPECTED VICTORY

  “You trust these guys?” Eli whispered to Samantha, head bobbing at Hawkins and another resistance fighter. The pair was scrunched at the rear of one of the four matte-black trucks.

  “They know my mother,” Samantha replied.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You don’t believe them?” she asked.

  “I guess… I just don’t know,” Eli replied. “I’ve had some bad experiences with strangers after the invasion. Lots of action out there on the roads.”

  “What about me?” she asked.

  “You? You’re just a pain,” he said with a smirk.

  Samantha was about to respond when the pistol in her pocket started to glow. Hawkins evidently heard the sound because he looked over. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the pistol that was glowing and humming like a tuning fork.

  Instead of reacting as she’d expected him to do, Hawkins was calm, almost as if he’d expected this. Samantha watched as he moved up and pounded on the roof of the truck, barking orders at the men driving. Then, he consulted a digital map on a smartphone and threw up a hand, pointing at the sky.

  Samantha turned back and noticed the shapes toiling in the murky sky far overhead, barely visible—the vague outlines of Syndicate ships.

  The ships dropped low, moving at an incredible rate of speed as the trucks accelerated.

  Hawkins crossed the bed of the truck on his hands and knees as Samantha fearfully gripped the side of the truck, the wind whipping her hair.