by Jim Roberts
“Perhaps the old fool isn’t looking in the right places,” Titus said, casually.
“You’re underestimating our Legatus. It’s not for nothing he is where he is.”
“My father is dying. I may be Secondus of Olympus, but unless my father chooses me as Imperator before his death, Tiberius will remain Legatus and simply have me killed. I think I know Tiberius well enough.”
Titus was surprised he was telling the woman so much. Not that any of this was a secret, as most within Olympus knew of Titus’s feud with the Legate. Still, the Secondus rarely shared his thoughts on issues of the succession. There was just something about this woman that made him feel comfortable in expressing his desires. Titus resolved to play his cards closer until he trusted the woman if indeed he ever did.
“So,” Titus said, changing the subject, “Why did my father choose you to command the Sirens? How have you and your team slipped under my notice for so long.”
The question made the small woman laugh, “Because I’m the best at what I do. My women are the most dangerous soldiers in the world.”
“But you’re so young,” Titus said, “You’re, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six? And to be commanding the Sirens...I’ve got to say, I’m impressed.”
“In this organization, a woman learns to keep her friends close and her enemies closer,” Vorena said, moving her eyes to the front of the Hyperion. Vorena’s lieutenants, the tall, vicious looking Fausta and the diminutive Claudia, sat behind the pilot seats, saying not a word. In one hand, Fausta played with a small steel knife—a kunai blade if Titus wasn’t mistaken. Each woman sat apart from one another, as if at attention. Neither seemed to be paying attention to the conversation at the back of the jet. In the RIO seat of the Hyperion sat Falco. The loyal war dog wanted to stay as far from the bizarre women as possible during the flight.
Titus gestured at the two Sirens, “You have an odd harem there. What’s their story?”
“Fausta commands the Secutors,” Vorena said, leaning back in her seat, “She trains them—teaches them to hunt and kill their prey. She’s my fury—my passion. She trained Brutus, our deceased tracker who you managed to get killed.”
“Joe Braddock killed Brutus,” Titus reminded her.
“—and you reprogrammed him against the Imperator’s wishes. Perhaps if you hadn’t, he would still be alive.”
Vorena’s response annoyed Titus. “It’s in the past.” He replied, “Dead is dead.”
“Still…that didn’t endear you to the Imperator, did it?”
“No. But I will make up for that mistake,” Titus gestured to the other Siren, “What about the small one?”
“You mean Claudia? Oh, she is my little secret. Play nice during this mission, and I may share it with you.”
Titus’s eyes glanced out the window of the Hyperion as he felt the aircraft begin its descent toward the city of Caracas. The verbal dance the Siren was doing with him was beginning to bore the Secondus. He was itching to begin his new mission. Once Lennox was found and killed, Titus could get back to what was most important to him.
Gaining control of Olympus.
STANDING TALL amongst the collection of skyscrapers in the Metropolitan District of Caracas was Corvo Tower. Built in the early 2000s by the genius Spanish Architect Fernando Verdú, it stood slightly shorter than the tallest building in Caracas: the Park Central Complex several blocks away. The Tower’s concrete and glass construction was highlighted by an ebony color scheme, making the fifty-floor skyscraper resemble a black monolith. Standing amongst the other metropolitan buildings, Corvo Tower served as an office complex for the richest of the rich in Venezuela.
At least, it did before the insurgency.
Now, the building was the primary headquarters of the Olympus PMC within Caracas. One of the President’s first orders upon signing the contract with Olympus was to seize the building with his military and hand Corvo Tower over for the PMC’s own private use. As the Metropolitan area of Caracas was still heavily under Government control, it would serve as a hub for Olympus Intel to coordinate efforts with those on Ascension.
It was past midday when the Hyperion touched down on the rooftop landing platform. Fausta and Claudia stepped off first, then Titus’s small retinue of Centurion guards, lead by Falco.
“Christ. I forgot how hot this place is,” Titus complained as he stepped onto the fire retardant platform. He walked over to the edge of the building, where a chest-high railing guarded the curious against a 200-meter fall to certain death. As he’d been briefed, the downtown area of the city was fairly secure, with much of the fighting contained in the east and south quadrants. In the distance toward the east—where the infamous Petare slums stretched along the horizon—he could see multiple plumes of smoke rising from the urban sprawl.
“Strange,” Titus remarked, “From up here, it almost looks peaceful.”
Vorena joined him, “Things have been dull for me these last few months. I can do with a little chaos in my life right now.”
Titus smiled at the remark. My kind of lady, he thought.
They made their way toward the entrance into Corvo Tower, a simple square block of concrete and glass where an outward facing elevator stood ready to receive the new arrivals. A familiar figure stood in front of the open lift, arms behind his back. Wearing a Muslim keffiyeh headdress, the man was exotic and handsome—with a long, bird-like nose and haunted dark eyes. He was dressed in an expensive, immaculately tailored Campagna suit.
Saladin. The Sand Scorpion.
The Olympus Grand Strategist bowed polite greetings to his guests.
“My Secondus, Lord Vorena, Lord Falco—welcome to Venezuela.”
Before Titus could respond, Vorena stepped forward, returning the bow. “Thank you, Lord Saladin. It is a great honor to finally meet you.”
Saladin bowed even lower. “The honor is entirely mine, Lady Vorena. Rumors of your beauty do you no justice.” Standing back to his towering height, Saladin motioned toward the elevator, “I am sorry, but pleasantries will have to wait. A new crisis has come to my attention, and it must be dealt with immediately.”
The group filed into the spacious lift and began the long journey down. Saladin brought the other Olympus members up to speed on the events of the past day.
“Urban pacification goes well throughout most of the city. The downtown Capital District and the Federal Legislature of the President are well guarded, but much of the outlying areas of the city are highly contested. Cerberus drones, along with heavy Legionnaire patrols have seen intense fighting in the Petare slums of the city. But that being said, for the time being, we are in control of Caracas.”
Titus tapped his thigh impatiently. “I need to meet with Damien Sledge. Where is he located now?”
Saladin dusted some grit from his suit. “Sledge has been maintaining a rather…low profile these days. Last I heard, he has retreated to his primary manufacturing facilities in Puerto Cabello.”
“There will be time for him later,” Vorena said, as she looked out on the sprawling tropical city, “What is this crisis you spoke of?”
“The VPA forces are largely ineffectual. They’re mostly students and gang members, civilian agitators and the like. They pose little real threat to us.” Saladin raised a hand to smooth his neatly trimmed beard, “It’s the Vagabonds that give us the most problems.”
“I’ve heard much about these Vagabonds,” Titus said, “I look forward to finally seeing them in action.”
“You may have to look harder than you realize.” Saladin scoffed, “They’re ghosts. The civilians think of them as some sort of mythic Robin Hood style troop, who appear when they need the most aid.”
“Have you tried to track them?” Vorena asked.
“Of course. But all attempts either lead the trackers into traps themselves or to dead ends. Like I said, they’re ghosts. Only an hour ago, we received a message that a significant VPA offensive has been launched against the barricades built to separ
ate the downtown district with the southern half of the city. The Government Forces have been holding them at bay, but these VPA rebels are better armed than in the past. I have reason to believe there is a large arms supplier operating within the city, backed either by the Vagabonds or another source, I’m not sure which.”
Titus saw the blonde Siren take all of the news in, carefully assessing what she’d been told. After a few seconds, Vorena asked, “What do plan to do about this offensive?”
Saladin nodded. “I was about to send Cerberus drones and Centurions to help quell the attack—”
“No,” Vorena said, cutting him off.
Saladin raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“You have a better idea?” Titus asked.
Vorena smiled. “My Sirens haven’t had any exercise for a while. Tell your people to unpack the cargo in that Hyperion and to be very careful when they do. I think it’s time my women get acquainted with our new enemies.”
* * *
ACROSS THE city from Corvo Tower, a battle was raging.
Amidst the explosion of violence, Sarah Anders, CNN correspondent, dropped down low to hide behind an overturned police car. How in the name of God do I get myself into these messes? she thought as a Molotov cocktail exploded against a parked car only a few meters away. Beside the journalist, Trent—her young, idealistic cameraman—ducked down with his Sony PXW Camcorder to avoid the hail of gunfire being exchanged between the VPA and their enemies, the Government’s armed forces.
Ever since arriving in the country a month ago, Sarah Anders had been following the efforts of the VPA resistance in their attempts to overthrow the Venezuelan Government. Her press credentials offered her a modicum of protection, but any logical person knew that in the middle of a war zone, anything went. What had started this morning as a smaller skirmish between the VPA forces against the barricades of the government-controlled northern district had exploded into a vicious gunfight.
A bullet ricocheted off the hood of the cop car, forcing Sarah to duck further into the garbage-covered street. Trent, holding his camera as if it were his only possession in the world, tried to get to a better vantage point to watch the action.
“Trent!” Sarah shouted, grabbing the brown-haired kid back behind the car, just as another rifle bullet clanging into the car hood, “Get your ass back here! They’re firing at us too!”
Sarah had originally just wanted some simple footage of the VPA rebels that she could send back to CNN, but everything had escalated so quickly. She was now caught square in the middle of a battle, with no clear exit. Ahead of them stood a massive set of Bremer pre-fab cement barricades, covered with razor wire and Czech hedgehog anti-tank defenses. The VPA rebels—over a hundred strong—had attacked in force, backed by a half dozen technicals. The improvised fighting vehicles were armed with what looked to her like large AK-47 rifles with ammo drums. RPKs, if Sara remembered right. The VPA forces were spraying the barricade for all they were worth. The Government Military had responded in kind with rifle fire and everything after that had gone straight to hell.
Sara noticed the VPA rebels were wielding weapons that would have been particularly difficult for civilian forces to find. With Venezuela’s restricted gun laws, the rebels were forced to use anything they could find to mount an offensive against the government. Now, these men and women were wielding advanced assault rifles that would be next to impossible for civilians to find in-country. She was no weapon expert, but she’d covered enough wars to recognize a Heckler & Koch G36 rifle when she saw one.
Another bullet cracked hard against the pavement, an inch beside Sarah’s hand.
“We need to get out of here!” Trent shouted above the noise.
“No shit, Sherlock!” Sarah yelled back, trying to figure a way out of the war zone. Around them were crowded housing units and filthy, rubbish filled alleyways that were also heavily barricaded. The only way out would be back they way they came, to the south and the rebels were just as likely to shoot them accidently in the heat of the moment. If they had to, perhaps it would be possible to climb over the alley barrier, but it was covered in barbed wire. Climbing it would not be fun.
It was another minute of waiting before Sarah noticed the gunfire from the Government Forces began to wane. There were assorted cheers from the VPA soldiers as they leapt up from their cover to press the attack.
Sarah peered over the car and saw the Government soldiers at the barricade pulling back. “What the hell?” she said, more to herself than her companion, “Why are they running?”
“Who cares?” Trent said, hefting his camcorder, “Let’s get out of here while—”
“Shush! Wait…do you hear that?”
Her cameraman grew quiet as he listened. There was a noise coming from beyond the barricade, like some sort of fluttering. The VPA rebels slowed their advance as they listened, puzzled by the noise as well. Sarah kept her eye out, scarcely allowing herself to breathe.
A few seconds later, four flying machines—drones, Sarah realized—flew over the neighborhood. Each one was the size of a small fridge, with a multi-engine setup that allowed them to float. They zoomed along atop the street, spreading out to various locations above the rebels.
The VPA soldiers held their fire, unsure what it was they were dealing with.
Sarah had to squint to get a better look at the machines in the bright daylight. The drones had a series of small struts extending from their primary armature, resembling something akin to sprinkler heads. The struts were in turn connected to a large tank in the drone’s upper segment. As the drones hovered, the struts started to spin around the chassis.
“What the…” Sarah watched the drones in fascination. The spinning was almost hypnotic.
As the drones hovered, they spun faster and faster. One of the VPA rebels hollered “Abran fuego”, or ‘open fire’ in Spanish.
It was too late.
As the drones picked up speed, the noise increased to a high pitched squeal. All at once, a flurry of what appeared to Sarah as liquid fire spat from the struts of the drones—raining down on the street in a perversely beautiful cascade of flame.
Willie Pete!
Sarah recognized the white-hot chemical phosphorus from her time investigating Iraq WMDs. The fiercely burning combustible sprayed across the street, igniting everything in its path.
Sarah grabbed Trent and screamed, “RUN!”
The two reporters bolted from their hiding place toward the nearest alley. Sarah risked a look behind her, immediately regretting doing so. All across the street, the men and women of the VPA rebel forces were burned alive. The slick incandescent white phosphorous chemical splashed across their bodies like molten fire. Skin was melted off in streams of goo as the rebels writhed in agony. The drones continued raining down their destruction until the whole block was a raging firestorm.
The two survivors made it to the alley barrier. Trent, having dropped the camcorder the moment the drones attacked, interlinked his hands. “You first!” he yelled.
There was no time to argue. Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder and stepped into his grip. The cameraman hefted her up and onto the top of the barrier. Sarah felt her hands scrape horribly against the barbed wire. Hoisting herself up, she turned back, reaching out to grab the hand of her friend.
“Hurry, Trent!”
The cameraman was about to grasp her hand when a terrifying sound came from behind him. The drones were moving across the entire breadth of the neighborhood, spreading the flames of death everywhere. A single drone changed course, having marked Sarah’s location. Speeding down the alley, it let loose another burst of burning phosphorous, belching out from its spinning armature.
The fire, hotter than anything Sarah had felt in her life, splashed into the narrow alley. It quickly spread across the ground like a river of lava, toward her cameraman.
“Trent! Give me your hand!”
“Oh my God!” The man screamed as the lake of fire rushed up and engulfed him
in a burning inferno. He held his hand out, shrieking in blood-curdling pain and horror. His eyes liquefied in his head as the phosphorous stripped away his skin like gristle in a barbecue.
Sarah watched in horror as her colleague and friend melted in front of her eyes. Trent’s screams were drowned out as the phosphorous poured into his throat, scorching him from the inside.
Sarah gagged at the horrific sight. Nothing in her life came close the terror she felt now. She watched Trent fall back into the lake of fire, his body consumed by the flames.
Looking back the way they’d came, Sarah spotted something moving within the sea of phosphorous.
A woman.
Walking in the fire!
Sarah thought it was a woman. She strolled through the white phosphorous, untouched by the heat. The oxidizing flames lapped at her body but did no damage at all.
For a brief time, Sarah could only stare at the impossible scene before her. This can’t be real, she thought to herself.
The burning woman turned her bald head to look down the alley. Amidst the horrible flames, she pointed at Sarah.
My God!
The nearest drone hovered toward Sarah.
RUN!
She tumbled backward off the barricade, gouging her arm badly on an exposed piece of rebar. A few seconds later she heard the heart-stopping squeal as the drone began to spit fire within the alley. Sarah got to her feet and bolted as fast as she could. Phosphorous rained down against the concrete walls on either side of her. Her legs pumped back and forth, momentarily outrunning the slow spread of fire.
But there was nowhere to go. The alley continued another fifty feet, and the drone would drench the entire area in phosphorous before she could escape.
I’m going to die…
Sarah ran as hard as she could, knowing it was pointless. She felt the consuming heat, heard the terrifying squeal of the drone. But she continued to run, not wanting to quit.