The Final Wars Begin

by S A Asthana

  “Get out of here as fast as you can. Buy space on one of those Nipponese water trawlers. Head to the moon. There are communities of illegals there, and they’ll take you in.”

  The orphan nodded, the mischief in his face gone. He handed over a piece of paper to Bastien. “Show this at the entrance. They’ll let you in.” A strange symbol was scribbled on it. The lines and curves formed a lion’s face, albeit poorly.

  Bastien nodded and said, “Go on, now. Onward and upward.”

  Jake scampered away and melted into the crowd. Would the child heed the advice or just go on to become another statistic? Orphans this young were most vulnerable. Perhaps there was a Father Paul in his life—someone to guide him. Maybe Bastien could be that light once this mess was over.

  ∆∆∆

  A group of men dressed in dark tunics sat cross-legged at the tent’s entrance. Some gossiped, something to do with Parisian relations with the Nipponese, while others slept, leaning into one another. One picked his nose as if he were a child. Harmless peasants, nothing more. Hardly revolutionaries. As Bastien walked up they threw daggers of stares at him. The youngest snapped, “What do you want?” He sounded twelve.

  Bastien flashed the paper with the lion symbol. The men straightened their backs in response and their eyes widened. One fellow, the chubbiest of the lot, leaned over to whisper something in another’s ear, his eyes laser-focused on Bastien all the while, like secrets spread on a children’s playground. With a smirk the chubby boy pulled back the curtain to the tent’s entrance, then motioned for Bastien to enter.

  Marie wasn’t getting unseated from power for a while, that much was painfully obvious. These Jacobins weren’t warriors. Bastien had been around warriors, men and women of steel. Their profile was much different than these men. Maybe the Jacobins had seen some action in the past, stopped a loup from harassing an old lady or something along those lines, but nothing worth noting. Twigs ready to be snapped. If Belle was anything like them, she’d be an easy target.

  An old man, wrinkled like a dried apple, rested within the tent. He lay on a thin rug, his stick of a body leaning on colorful pillows. A familiar smell, one of ancient, yellowed paper, permeated the air. Several books littered the space around the man’s blackened feet. “So, you are the one?” he asked, barely looking up from the hardcover open in his spotted hands. “The instrument, here to serve her highness.”

  “Instrument?” Bastien had never been called this term.

  “Yes… instrument. The orphan said you were an assassin that can help. You are an assassin, aren’t you?” The man scrutinized Bastien through round spectacles. He was an inquisitive owl, a wiry, inquisitive owl.

  “Oh right, yes… yes, I am.” Bastien nodded vigorously. Never acted before. First time for everything. He’d been advertised as an assassin. That was fine. Within a few minutes, he would be one.

  Setting aside the book, the man inquired, “You know what I’m reading?”

  Bastien nodded. “The Bible, King James version.” Father Paul had always carried a copy, ready to flip the pages open to the right verse at any given moment. The good book, while rare nowadays, still managed to show up amongst the filth.

  The old man pointed to other books at his feet and asked, “And what about these?”

  “The Quran, and the one below—”

  “They are all books praising false gods—that’s what they are, instrument.” The man nearly shouted. “There are no gods, only great leaders.”

  Bastien pursed his lips, unsure of what to say. The man clearly hadn’t had anyone to talk to in a while.

  “Tell me something, instrument… have you ever been in the presence of true leadership?”

  Crone came to mind, a snarl twisting his face. Then Marie, spread naked over satin sheets. Bastien replied, “I’ve been in the presence of many who claim to be something they’re not.”

  “That’s going to change then.” The man made a grand gesture with his arms, loose skin jiggling within the black tunic’s short-sleeves. The body odor was strong. Something like rotten milk mixed with meat. “You will now meet someone extraordinary for the first time in your life.” A dramatic pause filled the tent. The man teased it out for as long as possible.

  “Umm… okay,” Bastien said. Get on with it already.

  The rug was removed to expose a trap door. It was pulled open by its latch, revealing a narrow ladder disappearing into darkness—the sewer apparently had a sewer. The old man motioned for Bastien to follow. The two descended metal rungs until the light above them had shrunk to a speck. Total darkness. Like falling away into a black hole. The narrow tunnel must have stretched down hundreds of feet into the Earth’s bowels. Its air smelled musty as if centuries old, locked away in hidden chambers. Hot and humid. The climb down felt like a year dragging out.

  The ladder eventually ended in a tiny room. Red, brick walls stood illuminated by the light of a single candle. The flame swayed as Bastien stepped off a rung, unsettling the block of stagnant air. Shadows danced to and fro across a tattered mattress. A woman of small stature lay within them, a paperback in her hands. She asked abruptly, “Tell me—have you ever read Les Miserables? From the old times?”

  What is this? A book club? Keeping the shawl tight around his face, Bastien shook his head.

  “Victor Hugo sure knew his stuff,” she noted, and then quoted from the pages directly, “Paris has another Paris under herself; a Paris of sewers; which has its streets, its crossings, its squares, its blind alleys, its arteries, and its circulation, which is slime, minus the human form.”

  She paused and looked up at Bastien. “Sound familiar? You should read it. We can all learn something.” The woman took a pause as if considering her words carefully and then set aside the classic.

  Belle looked different than the posters. Though the sketches around the city displayed her features vividly, they failed to capture her essence, which at its core seemed dangerous. A rebel, she looked every bit the part—a short, unruly blue-dyed haircut, a fitted tracksuit highlighting lean muscles, and a tight, compact physique signaling nimble athleticism. An austere facade. The perfect foil for Marie’s debauched persona. Maximilien de Robespierre versus Marie Antoinette.

  A thorny sprite missing only the long wings, he made Belle for probably in her early thirties. Just a few years her sister’s senior but seeming ten years older. The crows’ feet carved around her eyes spoke volumes as did the wrinkles etched across her brow. Her triangular, solemn face couldn’t possibly have ever smiled. Those features—strong nose, thin lips, and sad, cat-like eyes weren’t meant for smiling. The woman seemed like a thing of stone.

  Still, she’d make an easy kill. He was twice her size, after all. And armed.

  The gears of the mind spun wildly, grinding the insides of Bastien’s skull. The sequence was clear—he’d reach down, pull out the pistol, and shoot her and the old man dead. One, two, bang. It was practically muscle memory from his military missions. Nothing too hard, as long as this thorn didn’t resist. The room was deep enough that there was no chance of the so-called revolutionaries above hearing his shots. He could climb the ladder and walk right out the tent without creating suspicion.

  It was easy. Too easy. Why hadn’t Marie gotten to her yet? He’d done it on his first try. That on the basis of some orphan’s poorly drawn lion.

  “You may leave us, Peter,” Belle told the old man. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Belle pointed to a dark corner behind Bastien and noted, “Jean is here—nothing to worry about.”

  Jean? Bastien turned and peered into the shadows. An android, equal in height and frame to Bastien, stood silent, its black paint blending in with the darkness. No wonder it had remained unnoticed. Two white circles, Jean’s eyes, stared back from within a block face like moons to a night sky. The machine was an antiquated design, a cylinder with ropes for limbs, decades old automaton with no sentience unlike newer models—but still deadly. That’s Jean. Oh, hell.

 
; The task had just become exponentially harder. It wasn’t anything too difficult, as long as this thorn didn’t resist anymore. Marie had never warned about Belle’s security. Perhaps she hadn’t known. After all, where does a revolutionary even get the means to secure a bot like this? Was she funded by some unknown source? Didn’t matter, because right now a plan B was needed, one that accounted for metal-man Jean.

  Peter departed, his limbs quivering with age as every rung was climbed. It was debatable whether he’d make it all the way to the top. Bastien turned back to Belle, his face longer than before. Were her green eyes blacker now somehow?

  “You can take off that silly shawl, Lieutenant General,” she said. “I know who you are.”

  Bastien blinked a few times, trying to process the woman’s words. How the hell does she know who I am? Uneasiness flooded his stomach, drenching its walls as if with acid. He unwrapped the cloth.

  “Come with me,” Belle instructed. She picked up the candle and walked past Bastien. Jean stood aside like a lazy boulder as she continued into darkness, the flame illuminating a narrow tunnel ahead. Bastien followed with teeth clenched. He was being trapped, no doubt about it. Plan B needed urgency.

  Jean’s heavy mechanical steps stomped behind. Bastien was bookended by Belle and her minion. Her massive minion.

  “Do you know why lions went extinct?” Belle asked without looking back. She was a silhouette within the flame’s gentle glow—her gait light, her tone sharp like an untamed cat’s claw.

  “Because they didn’t know when they were being baited,” he answered. Yes, this was definitely a trap. The paper with the lion scribbled on it made sense now. The orphan had been in on it. Was Belle planning to give Bastien up to the Martians? Just another money-hungry Parisian?

  No time for questions. Only action—Plan B had formed. Take down Jean with a shot… or two, and then attack Belle. It really wasn’t much of a plan. Then again, Plan A hadn’t been much of a plan either. Still, something needed to be done. Speed was essential. Draw gun, spin, shoot Jean, spin once more, shoot Belle. There was zero room for error.

  “I know Marie sent you, Lyon,” Belle said without turning around.

  No wonder finding her was so easy. He’d been lured. But who’d given him up? The veins in Bastien’s neck swelled as if ready to burst sprays of blood. Plan B. He reached for the pistol and swiveled on his right heel in the span of a single breath. Jean’s head jerked back. The well- aimed shot had exploded from the Howa’s barrel and taken out an eye. Shredded circuits sparked within the socket. Bastien’s marksmanship was second to none. The second shot severed the robot’s head from its body. Humanoid bots all had similar weaknesses, their necks being one of them. Too flimsy often times for their thick, processor-packed skulls. Jean’s body staggered about feeling for its head but grabbed only air. A comical mess. Then, as it crashed to the ground with a loud thump, Bastien turned about with pistol pointed forward, but he was too slow for his second target. If he moved in spaces of single breaths, Belle moved in macro-seconds.

  She was already upon him, delivering a front kick to his gun-wielding hand. The foot struck like a whip and sent the Howa spiraling away. Bastien pulled back his reddened fingers with a grimace. She was fast.

  A roundhouse nearly took his nose. She may have been speedy, but he was no snail either. Dodging a few more kicks, he unleashed a sequence that was all elbows and knees, but he struck only air. Hell, maybe I am a snail compared to her.

  She cartwheeled away and stood in a zenkutsu dachi, a karate stance, with right leg bent forward, left leg stretched back and core low to the ground. The candle, now lying uselessly on the dirt floor, lit half her body to make her appear a sinewy ghoul. She taunted. “I’m not impressed, Lyon.”

  Taking a boxing stance he said, “Not here to impress you. Just kill you.”

  “Fat fuckin’ chance,” she spat back. “I know this tunnel well, and you can’t see in darkness.”

  Bastien’s brow crunched in confusion. He grunted, “What the hell are you tal—”

  Belle stomped out the candle. Total darkness. Nothing but silence in the seconds that followed. Plan B was in jeopardy. Hell, it was done. Every single muscle on Bastien’s body stiffened. He prepared for an attack from the front but a blow came from the back—something hard knocked him on the head. He dropped to the floor like a bag of sand.

  ∆∆∆

  Bastien’s mind was like a hard drive just powered on with each data byte shifting slowly into place. Blinking away the rheum from his eyes, he found himself lying in the middle of a large, dim chamber. It smelled metallic, unlike New Paris. This wasn’t part of the sewer. It was an old bomb bunker with wrought iron walls. They were barren except for some candelabras lining them. The light from the flames pierced and aggravated his already persistent headache. Bastien reached to rub his throbbing head but couldn’t move his arms. Not even an inch. Or his legs. He was hogtied. A pulsating pain ran back and forth across his arched back.

  “W-water.” He could barely speak.

  A dark figure appeared to move in the bunker’s center. The figure’s edges sharpened and its features became more pronounced. Belle. She stood with hands at her waist, her eyes glaring down her nose. The Jacobins flanked her. They numbered twenty or so. Enough to be a nuisance but not enough to take down Marie or her army. Or any army. Bastien tilted his head up to get a better view of the room. A familiar man stood in the corner, half-lit by a flame.

  The answer to who’d given him up.

  “Good to see you again, Hafiz,” Bastien mumbled, all the while twisting his wrists behind his back. “Been hard at work?”

  Hafiz cracked a grin. He leaned against a tall, wooden crate, his arms crossed across his chest. Bastien’s gaze trailed back to Belle. She took a few steps forward, knelt to within inches of his face and growled, “You fuckin’ asshole!” Her breath smelled terrible—personal hygiene clearly wasn’t a priority when one was busy being a thorn. “You thought you could kill me?” She slapped her chest. “Do you even realize what that would have meant for the future of this city?”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Bastien answered, spittle lining the corners of his mouth.

  “Marie destroyed any potential New Paris ever had.” Belle threw her arms up into the air. “She took the hard work of my father, and made a mockery of it! She killed him—did you know that? She killed him right in front of me.”

  Bastien avoided eye contact.

  Belle grabbed him by the hair. “Do you know the damage you could have caused? And for what? Just to be another toy in her harem?”

  As her face twisted with anger she walked over to Hafiz and pulled a pistol from his holster. Stomping back, she stared down the barrel at Bastien.

  If I don’t play an ace, I’m dead. I need to buy some time. “Wait.” he shouted. “Look... I have to return to Marie with evidence of your kill. That means I will be within close quarters of her again. That gives me the opportunity to take her out! She will not be expecting it and—”

  “You cannot be trusted.” Belle clicked off the gun’s safety.

  “Hafiz isn’t the only one capable of being a turncoat,” Bastien yelled, sweat trekking the length of his face. Muscles cramped along his back. Vertebrae nearly snapped. He pleaded, “I promise you, Belle—Queen Belle, I promise you that I’m your best bet. She won’t be expecting it.”

  She pressed the barrel tip onto Bastien’s forehead. The cold metal sent a shudder through his body. His head was hot. He could pass out at any moment. How the hell will I kill Marie? Say something. “When I’m with Marie… in her bedroom,” Bastien searched the air for answers, “it’ll just be me, her and Hafiz. She’ll probably be high like the last time I was with her. And… that’s when I can get the job done. I am your only shot.”

  The pitch wasn’t solid, but it was all he had. Bastien couldn’t recall the last time he’d prayed for himself, but right then and there, he swore he heard himself think, Dear Lord, save m
e!

  “All right, Lyon. I will put your proposal to the test,” Belle said, handing the gun back to Hafiz. In a sudden shift, as if a light switch turned off, Bastien’s breathing slowed. His head cooled. His pitch had somehow worked. “As soon as you’re untied, you will head straight to her quarters. You will kill her. Once the job’s done, Hafiz will update me immediately.” Belle patted her informant on the back.

  Hafiz untied Bastien, and whispered into his ear from behind, “Told you I’ve got my eyes on you.” His smirk reeked of arrogance. And his breath stank of meat—rat meat. Does no one care about hygiene?

  With arms clasped behind her back, Belle continued, “Hafiz will escort you. I don’t want any bounty hunters getting in the way of this. With him around, they’ll keep their distance.”

  Hafiz pulled Bastien up to his feet by the shoulders like an adult standing up a toddler. “Little man, we’ve got high hopes for you.” He let out a hearty laugh along with a few others in the room.

  A hammer being passed around from one hand to the next — that’s all Bastien was. So much for blending in. Already a pipe dream, his disappearance seemed impossible now. Perhaps he was foolish to have chased it in the first place.

  “Bastien,” a voice whispered in his ear again. Was it Hafiz? No. It was Father Paul. “Just because we are surrounded by monsters doesn’t mean we have to become monsters ourselves.” The words were faint. And for the first time in his life, Bastien ignored the old man.

  CHAPTER 10: CUBE

  The shopkeeper shrugged and focused on the rusted flute in his hand. When he raised his eyes to the handler of the picture his mistake became apparent. His shoulders drooped and his eyes widened. “Ac-actually I-I- didn’t get a good look,” he stammered, “L-let me try again.”

  He reviewed the picture once more, this time with quivering lips. A few short breaths later, the man’s face went long. “I’m s-sorry, but I haven’t seen this person. I’m really, really s-sorry.” He was telling the truth.