The Circuit, Book 1

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Citizens of New Terrene.” A deep, authoritative voice emanated from a projection displaying the symbol of the Tribune—a grasping, black hand with its fingers curled around the green silhouette of Earth. “The Spirit of Earth is within us all. Together, through devotion and restraint, we will redeem ourselves. Your Tribune looks after you, as it does all of humanity. Faith will guide us, men and women of Earth.”

  Sage had heard the recording countless times. There were dozens of similar screens spanning the Lower Block like scintillating, blue banners. When no urgent news or discord was being reported, the message would be replayed as a constant reminder. She could recite the words without listening if she wanted, same as everyone else. It was drilled into their minds, day after day, over and over again. It eased their suffering to think that Earth could be saved, even though after so many centuries few even knew what the Homeworld used to look like. She always imagined it was once a paradise of flowing water and sprawling, green landscapes as far as the eye could see.

  A tram, shaped like a rusty, elongated bullet stopped across the way. Her eyes settled on a small figure, walking around it. It was him! Dozens waited to get on board, on their way to work the factories and vertical farms or, if they were lucky, service the whims of a wealthier household. He looked like any of them at first glance…wearing loose hand-me-down clothes with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder…but her well-trained eye could see the difference. He was paler than most, with a taller, leaner build. The beads of sweat dripping off of his forehead, despite the lower block being markedly cool, was enough for her to know he was the suspected Ceresian she had been tracking.

  There wasn’t much time. She let the bowl roll inconspicuously out of her hand and over the railing before wiping her lips and hurrying toward the tram.

  The car had begun to move by the time she reached it. Making sure no guards were looking, she grabbed the bottom with her artificial right arm, the metal fingers digging into the smooth surface. She hoisted her legs up to wrap around the rounded base as it jolted forward and began to move along a suspended track.

  Hanging in the shadow, she watched as the cluttered houses sped by. She was on route to the Nether—the sacred core where the three ravines of the Labyrinth of the Night intersected. Rings of suspended catwalks wrapped around the cylindrical cavity with holographic effigies lining the inner edge of each level, projections meant to honor all of the fallen Tribunes and heroes of the New Earth Tribunal. Around the outside were chapels dedicated to the Spirit of Earth and shooting up the center of the entire hollow was a thick metal shaft packed with a system of lifts that ascended to the upper city. It also served as a sort of mega-pile supporting the transportation hub of New Terrene on the surface.

  Located sparsely throughout were storefronts that served water and food during the Feed. Amongst the lower castes of the New Earth Tribunal, there was no true currency. She had heard rumors that buried further behind the bars were secret brothels and gambling dens intended for the wealthier folk of New Terrene, though she had never stumbled upon them, even in her line of work.

  The tram came to a halt and she slipped off as though she had been a passenger the entire time. A couple of wives were waiting at the platform to greet their weary husbands. Her target didn’t even pay them a passing glance. He rounded the curved walkway with his eyes fixed forward, as if on a mission. She kept a safe distance and her head down, pulling her cloak tight around her chest.

  He had to be the one.

  The man turned left, down one of the pathways leading to the central core of lifts. A lined had formed, waiting at the security scanners. Only two people separated them as he stepped through a tight grid of white and blue light-beams. The machine buzzed and the guard standing behind the scanner stepped forward.

  “Let me see your bag,” the guard said before releasing a jaded sigh. Her suspected target handed it over without a fuss. After the guard shuffled through whatever was inside and found nothing, he continued. “Turn around. Legs open.” Her target followed the directions promptly. He held up his left hand, which gleamed beneath the overhead light.

  “Prosthetic arm, huh? How’d you get that?” The guard tapped the metal fingers before allowing him to stand upright.

  Sage looked down at her own right hand, the synthetic joints of her fingers folding flawlessly and without sound, as she squeezed a fist over and over. It had been over seven years, but she could never get over the strange sensation of sliding her fingers along her palm and feeling nothing. There was only a slight tingle at her shoulder where her natural nervous system meshed with a manufactured one, but even that was hardly noticeable anymore. His was of a clunkier construction, probably decades old and nowhere near as advanced.

  “Shipping accident out in the Nascent Cell. ‘Bout four years ago I reckon,” Her target answered, doing his best to retain his composure. There was no way the guard would have noticed, but she saw the subtle indications of anxiety; his foot shuffling, the beads of sweat pooling at the nape of his neck, the slight twitch of his human thumb between his index finger.

  “All right, you’re good to go,” the guard said.

  Her target exhaled with relief before stepping forward.

  While she waited for her turn, she contemplated the possibilities. Not in the bag, she thought. It could be waiting for him up top. When it was her turn to pass through the scanner, the machine permitted her despite her arm. Tribunal security was programmed to allow passage of all acting Executors. She let the loose end of her long sleeve drape down over her metal hand as she passed the nodding guard without making eye contact.

  In the core, dozens of glowing, white elevator shafts shot upward around her through the tall, empty space. It was congested, but she spotted her target heading into a nearby lift about to arrive. Trying not to appear rushed, she used her lithe figure to navigate the crowd.

  The doors sealed shut behind her, but she made it. And there he was, a Ceresian wretch standing only a few feet from her. The elevator was well-lit, no shadows for her to spring from. She counted three pedestrians in her way, a small price to pay in collateral compared to the thousands that would die if she failed. The ground trembled slightly before the lift began to rise. The Ceresian was staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

  The bag is empty and it isn’t strapped to his body. She scratched her head, the cold metal fingers running through her long, auburn hair. Then it hit her. The arm!

  CHAPTER SIX—CASSIUS VALE

  Dusk over New Terrene

  It was dusk over New Terrene. Cassius Vale stood beside Tribune Joran Noscondra at the foot of the Arbiter’s Enclave. It was a daunting building, a fortress of rubicund metal rising without any windows or even a rift in its stark facade. The entrance was an enormous, deep chasm, permitting the steady flow of combat mechs and soldiers.

  “Please forgive Tribune Vakari. He spoke before thinking clearly,” Joran said. He flashed his warmest smile and reached out to rest his hand on Cassius’s shoulder.

  “He must learn to acquire a short memory. As I have,” Cassius responded coldly. He removed the hand, using it to motion to the back of his head where there was a jagged scar running up from his neck to halfway up his hairline. “But some scars never heal.”

  Joran’s eyes widened at the sight of the wound. He exhaled. “I hope one day we can put the past behind us, Cassius. I truly do.”

  “So do I, but know that my service is for the good of humanity. That is all.”

  “Then we serve the same party.”

  “Indeed.” Cassius moved down the processional steps of the Enclave before turning around. “I will finish the rest of the modifications from my home on Titan. Keep me apprised, and hopefully, soon this little issue will be resolved.”

  “We haven’t always seen eye to—” Joran began, before apparently deciding it wasn’t worth wasting his breath. He clasped his hands together and bowed modestly, looking from Cassius’s eyes to the
ground. “May the Spirit of the Earth guide your steps, Cassius Vale. For all our sakes.”

  The Ex-Tribune replied with a nearly imperceivable nod before he turned and walked away. There was no reason to smile through his teeth at them any longer; no reason to bow and grovel his way back into their good graces. They needed him, and he relished in their continued ignorance. Modifications, he thought to himself with a chuckle. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to help them with their problem. The Vale Protocol may have begun with only the best intentions, but he would use it to his own ends.

  There were shorter routes Cassius could’ve taken to the New Terrene Transportation Hub, but he enjoyed strolling through the city from time to time. Everything worked like a well-polished machine. Small crafts zipped by overhead within suspended rail tracks while pedestrian traffic flowed throughout the gridded system of avenues below. The streets were like plates hanging over the rifts of the Labyrinth of the Night, with narrow gaps along the edges opening to the darkness of the lower city. Flowered trees ran down their centers, a testament to the fact that not all other life in the Circuit was dead. But they were the sole form of beautification. It was a place without much flare, but in its austerity, there was a sublime nature, which rivaled the ancient cities of Earth.

  No true outdoors existed in the city, for to be beyond the enclosure was to endure the biting cold of Mars’s surface, the naturally low force of gravity, and, of course, the lack of breathable air typical on all the planets of the Circuit. Instead, ten stories above his head, an intricate, trellised ceiling spanned between the skyscrapers. The tallest buildings seemed to dematerialize as they climbed beyond the glistening, artificial sky of New Terrene. Panels of metal plating alternated with those of glass in a pattern to mimic the movement of the sun, providing constant, ambient light. With Earth's surface unusable, there were no vast fertile plains in the Circuit, only contained environments suitable for growing crops. Nowhere were they more spectacular than the upper skyline of New Terrene.

  Cassius turned down the main avenue of the city. The sun peeked in, casting a deepening brownish-red hue made even more magnificent as it glimmered off the ruddy metal of the city. He had no love for crowds, and the city was nothing if not bustling, but nobody paid much attention to him. Anonymity was the name of the game in New Terrene. Anyone caught out-of-line would answer to the relentless military presence. Soldiers in the traditional black-and-green armor of the Tribune were always on patrol. The quaking footsteps of combat mechs lumbering up and down the suspended streets were a constant reminder for citizens to behave.

  He could see the Transportation Hub rising through the Ceiling to take its place in the center of the skyline of New Terrene. Dozens of suspended rails crisscrossed through its opened base, with the more massive lines running above him. They cut axially along the main avenue and eventually rose up Pavonis Mons to Midway Terminal, and then to the Conduit Station hovering above.

  “Drop the bomb!” A voice suddenly shouted over the din of the busy streets.

  Cassius nearly slammed face first into a mob of frantic civilians. His wandering gaze snapped down toward the commotion. He pushed through the crowd, eager to see what had caused such a panic. At the edge of the hub’s lofty atrium, was a line of soldiers, their eyes fixed down the sights of their pulse-rifles. Many of their arms were shaking, but he couldn’t see their faces to grasp how nervous they really were.

  “Drop it or we will fire!”

  Cassius got on his toes and peered over the line. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN—SAGE VOLUS

  Ascend, My Dear

  “Shit, Shit, Shit…” Sage Volus repeated to herself under her breath. She crouched over her target’s corpse. Blood oozed out of a laceration across his neck and his legs continued to spasm. With her natural hand, she aimed her pulse-pistol at the three innocents across the elevator in order to keep them back. Then she analyzed the arm. Through the circuits on the bicep, she could see the spinning core of some type of explosive. It was built into the prosthetic and a small timer within displayed three minutes and twenty-five seconds.

  Making sure the civilians wouldn’t be too bold as to try something, she quickly flexed her synthetic hand, forcing out a long, jagged wrist-blade. She began to saw through the man’s flesh at the base of his shoulder, making sure not to damage the root of his prosthetic and risk detonation. After she cut all the way down to the bone she swung down as hard as she could to snap it. Blood spattered her face. With another hack she severed the arm completely from the man’s shoulder, drenching herself in doing so.

  A woman across the room was crying hysterically. The man at her side cradled her head to his chest and covered her eyes. The other civilian was a young boy, staring in awe as Sage rose with a bloodstained, artificial arm dangling from her own artificial grip.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, attempting to comfort them. She had never been good at such things. She also couldn’t speak for the bomb.

  She assumed the Ceresian was probably targeting the top of the lifts where they punctured the conical atrium of the Transportation Hub. Judging by the size, the explosive was powerful enough to level the building’s structure, closing off the chief means of transport out of the Labyrinth of the Night and killing thousands with it.

  The elevator stopped. The three civilians scrambled out screaming, “She’s got a bomb!” Sage glanced around the exit. People were everywhere. There was nowhere to hide. She inhaled deeply and switched her pistol to the unwavering clutches of her artificial hand. Then she made a break for it.

  Half the crowd scattered as soon as they heard the word “bomb.” The other half stared in sheer terror when they saw blood dripping from her cloak. She barely made it to the opposite side of the atrium before soldiers began converging on her. When a few more swooped down in personal hover-bikes she froze, looking straight down the barrel of no less than a dozen rifles. Her gaze fell to the bomb—two minutes and eleven seconds.

  “Drop the bomb!” one of them shouted.

  She could’ve yelled out and claimed who she truly was, but there was no reason for them to believe her. Executors were members of an elite, covert group answerable only to the Tribune’s themselves or their respective Hands. Even the identity of all other Executors was a mystery to her. It was her sacred duty to protect and serve the New Earth Tribunal at any cost, even if that meant taking the lives of its soldiers if left with no other alternative. She counted thirteen armed guards, with two mechs approaching. If there were four or five she had no doubt she could take them out before they could land a shot, but not thirteen.

  “Drop it or we will fire!”

  I am the silent hand of the Tribune. She began reciting the Executor Vow in her head. Her heart pounded. It was time to finally see if years of training would pay off. Her trigger-finger slowly prepared to squeeze, until, all of a sudden, a familiar voice yelled out to break the tension.

  “Hold your fire!” Someone yelled. An older man wearing a violet tunic burst through the lines. “Hold your fire.” He backed up toward Sage, facing the soldiers with his arms spread wide as if to impede a surging mass.

  “Get out of the way!” one of the soldiers growled. He charged forward and swung the butt of his rifle at the intruder’s head. The aged man easily ducked out of the way. Then he delivered a few lightning quick strikes to the soldier’s throat and one more which cracked the visor of his helmet, knocking him out in an instant.

  “I am Cassius Vale!” The older man declared. He held out his forearm so they could all see the lidless eye inscribed on his bracer. “Acknowledge if you recognize this as the truth.”

  The soldiers looked back and forth at each other anxiously until one decided to speak up. “I’ve seen him before, it’s true,” he said and a few of the others nodded in agreement. Still, none of them shifted their aim from Sage.

  She noticed the long, jagged scar running down the back of the man claiming to
be Cassius Vale’s neck. It can’t be, she marveled. He wasn’t lying. She had only known one man in all of her life with a scar like that, but after so many years apart she had forgotten the sound of his voice.

  “I was a Tribune!” Cassius declared. “This woman is an Executor and the next one of you who keeps her from her duty will have my wrath to suffer!”

  The soldiers contemplated what he said, but still, none of them lowered their guns, even as mechs arrived.

  “Lower your arms!” Cassius roared with authority, his stern features tightening. Most of the soldiers shook noticeably as they listened, but one by one, they finally backed down.

  Sage panted—one heavy breath after another. She could sense the silent clock of the bomb ticking. Cassius turned to her and they locked gazes. He wore a nervous smile, one it didn’t look like he was accustomed to showing. There was a sparkle in his eyes and it told her everything she needed to know. Once again, the man who rebuilt her arm was there at a time of desperation. She opened her mouth to thank him, to say how much she had missed him, but he shook his head and silenced her.

  “Ascend, my dear,” he whispered.

  After a quick glance back to the timer she decided he was correct and she bolted toward one of the security vehicles. Don’t look back, she told herself as she pushed through the flabbergasted guards and jumped onto one of the hover-bikes. She powered it on and zoomed upward, the blur of Cassius receding in the viewport’s reflection. There was no time to reach the outer walls of New Terrene, only to go up. Pulling back on the controls with all of her might, she steered the vehicle through oncoming traffic. Ships swerved around her, many of them smashing into each other. That wasn’t her concern.

  Her destination was one of the tiny maintenance ports leading out to the outer surface of New Terrene’s ceiling enclosure. Once she was high enough she leaped out of the ship and grasped the latch with her metallic hand. Dangling, high above the ground and with a bomb in her free hand, she flexed her artificial arm and armed her wrist-blade. It sliced up through the lock. She held her breath before swinging up legs first and kicking through the opening.