by Andrew Iddon
Greg and the remainder of his very confused squad returned to the outpost where they removed their equipment, debating and discussing with each other what they thought was going on. Several theories were thrown around the room, conspiracies, and betrayal, and every other cracked out theory possible was suggested at one point or another. They slept uneasy that night, awaiting the call from General Gryphon for the proper debriefing.
Morning arrived as the sun was rising over the horizon; the squad awoke and readied to assemble in the communications room, to discuss what happened. General Gryphon appeared on the hologram projector table in front of them, “Well, Sergeant, Can I assume, since you are standing before me, that you have good news?” asked Gryphon.
“I am afraid not, General; there was an issue,” replied Greg.
Gryphon’s face soured, “What kind of issue?”
“Someone beat us to it,” replied Greg.
“The rebels? Yes, they were already there,” said Gryphon.
“No, there was someone else; there was another team of people there, clad in black armor bearing no markings of allegiance. They were nothing like we have ever seen; they were too strong for us to overcome, and they fled with a disc. We believe the data we were sent to liberate from the rebels is now in their hands,” replied Greg disappointed.
“This is bad news, Greg; you always did manage to screw things up. When are you going to learn from your mistakes, and make something of yourself?” asked Gryphon.
“You’re right. I am sorry… Father,” replied Greg, with his head down.
“That is General to you, Sergeant,” replied Gryphon before buzzing and dissapearing from the hologram projector.
Greg held his head down; he had tried his entire life to impress his famous father, but always came up short. He thought he would never be accepted by the man he had always looked up to. Greg was at a loss, he didn’t know what to do from here. His mission was a failure, and he was not given further instruction. All he knew was that the masked man who was now in possession of the disc had to be stopped. Greg knew he needed to know more about what exactly was happening in that facility before it was abandoned, and why it was abandoned in the first place. If the information was so crucial, why the Imperium would let it go untouched for so long, seemed beyond him.
CHAPTER 6
Several weeks passed. The mission was long over, and no word had been heard from Gryphon about the disc or the mysterious new enemy. Greg went about his regular duties trying to convince himself that nothing was going wrong. There was much evidence that something big was happening. With the Chairman’s message, the new enemy, and all the secrets being kept, it was hard not to be worried.
Greg knew that something was going on, that the Imperium and the council were refusing to inform their citizens. Something was seriously amiss. He could see it; the higher ranking officers and diplomats seemed worried, trying to cover up the entire event, trying to convince themselves that nothing was wrong. Greg concluded that he must find out for himself what was happening. He couldn’t ask the council; they wouldn’t tell him, and the Chairman made it very clear that both of their lives were at stake if he talked about the meeting. He would have to go outside the sight of the Imperium to investigate on his own, but he would need help; he was a grunt, not a detective. If there was any way he could get help finding a spy or personal investigator who did not care for the Imperium, it would be The Syndicate.
The Syndicate was an organization of criminals and masterminds, of scum and stealers; it was the only threat to the Italian Mafia back on earth. The Syndicate began as a small group of punks and gangsters who decided to grow in size and power. They eliminated the Veduccios, the mob family in charge of the infamous Italian Mafia. They eventually left earth, and started several hideouts and clubs on the planet Baronium, named for its abundance of the newly discovered metal known by the same name. Baronium was located deep in the Gamma sector of space, just outside the reach of the Imperium. It had joined the council, and so was governed by the Imperium. However, its people did not obey too many of the laws. It was a scum planet, where wanted criminals, and all sorts of mischievous people lived, hidden from unwanted eyes. Greg looked at the planet from the window of the Imperial Transport shuttle he and his squad were on. They were heading to Baronium together, whether the council supported it or not. The council wouldn’t meddle with Baronium’s business anyway. They had far more significant and influential decisions to make, than snooping on a crime ridden planet.
The shuttle landed; Greg told his men not to wander too far, and to meet at the Imperium outpost before the night’s end for sleep. They all scattered; Greg headed towards the known route to a Syndicate meeting place where he had been before.
He entered the club, noticing everyone’s heads turning, staring at the new face in town. A large tattooed man stood in front of him, and gruffly asked, “What are you doing in here, Imperium pig?”
Greg stood there, shocked and startled, for he was wearing casual clothing. Finally he asked, “How did you…”
“How did I know you’re an Imperial? You smell too good, and your hair is too neat.”
Greg shrugged his shoulders in eventual agreement; the man did have a good point. Greg handed the mammoth of a man a handful of Imperial credits, and asked for the person in charge. He explained a brief version of his story, and the tattooed man led Greg upstairs to the office of the leader. He opened the door and pushed Greg inside, closing the door behind him. Greg walked into the room to see that it was not an office; it was more of an apartment. There was a big TV, couches, a kitchen of rather decent quality, which told a lot about the character of the leader.
A tall man entered from a doorway on the opposite end of the room, a strong looking man, good overall physique, and he was covered in very elaborate tattoos. He had rather detailed and artistic sleeve tattoos on both arms, as well as a large tattoo of a metallic vulture, with its wings spread, tattooed on his back. He was not wearing a shirt at the time, and had a bottle of beer in his hand. A drawn pistol was dangling from his fingers in the other. He was wearing dark pants with fancy spiked punk boots, red tinted sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and a tight bandana covering all his hair. He did not look surprised to see Greg, almost as if he was expecting him, even though he was not entirely prepared at the time. They shook hands, and the man introduced himself.
“My name is Vulture. I’m in charge of this branch of the Syndicate for the time being. My primary responsibility is the private mercenary army called the Skullz; perhaps you have heard of us?”
“Heard of you? Your army is probably the most wanted mercenary organization in the known galaxy. The Imperium has a hefty bounty on your head, Vulture”, replied Greg.
“Well, I have had no love for your Imperium, really; however they are the reason for my success. Before you go asking questions though, we need to get to the reason why you’re here. So, let’s cut to the chase; what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“I have reason to doubt the Imperium’s intentions with a recent mission I was tasked with completing. I was to liberate stolen data from a band of rebels, but when we got there, somebody had beaten us to the punch. We have no leads to their identities. I told my commanding officer, but I don’t think they are telling me the full truth. They seem to want to hide the contents of the facility, and I think they might actually know who the thieves were,” explained Greg.
Vulture nodded along in agreement.
After the explanation, Vulture spoke again, “Yeah, it figures. The Emperor is trying to screw you over; he seems to do that a lot. For preaching justice and peace, the Imperium is full of corruption. It seems that you have a rather interesting situation, and I would like to be in on it. If it means profit, and a chance to mess with the Emperor, then count me in. I will return to my flagship with the Skullz fleet, and will send out my two cofo
unders, Sabre and Drake, on a little spying mission. We will try to find any answers we can; however, we cannot look far, for the Imperial fleet doesn’t take kindly to Skullz vessels in their sights. I suggest you go and look through any archives, or hidden documents or folders, to see what the damn factory was all about. Something is going on, and I want to find out. Maybe there’s going to be a new war starting, which means more jobs for the Skullz.”
Vulture and Greg exchanged farewells, and Greg returned to the barracks to meet up with the rest of his squad. The squad was awaiting his return, hoping he would have more information than they did. They weren’t as lucky as he was; however, some had tidbits of info to help.
Greg still did not feel as though his work was done, and while he was on Baronium, he figured it would be a good chance to do some snooping in the Imperial archives via any computer terminal located in the base.
He looked through almost five years of historical records and data, hoping something would be of interest. He found a file on the planet of Nassau, but nothing about the facility. Either it wasn’t meant to exist, or it had been erased, in case of unwelcome eyes. Greg was growing frustrated; he needed to know what was going on. The Emperor could not keep him in the dark for long.
He was about to give up, when one stray file name caught his interest. Through some random browsing Greg came upon a file named Operation Watchers, and he eagerly opened it. The file apparently was meant to be deleted, but somehow was dropped in the wrong domain. Greg read the dozens of pages of diagrams and information, and it explained the process of a secret military tactic known as Operation Watchers.
The basic overall synopsis of the tactic was to capture enemy troops, preferably officers or people with a lot of access to enemy secrets, clone them, and teach the clone to be a spy for the Imperium. Greg’s jaw dropped; the Imperium was stooping to desperate measures. To master the art of cloning was playing God, and it had never been accomplished. The file was outdated; apparently the cloning research failed, and many specimens were terminated.
However, there were a select few that had failed, but were not destroyed, and had escaped. The mistake the scientists made was that the clones grew personalities, and eventually, gained a conscience and soul. They originally were meant to be emotionless slaves who would follow orders unto their dying breath. But the first batch of clones evolved at exceedingly high rates, were considered serious threats and ordered to be eliminated.
Thirty-five clones survived, and are apparently still alive today. The progress bars on their elimination were still pending, and the Imperium was still hunting them. Greg gasped with excitement; maybe this was the answer, and maybe that facility on Nassau was a cloning facility. It answered a few questions, yet it still did not answer who the masked man and his troops were. Perhaps they were clones on a mission to destroy the facility until Greg intervened. Greg immediately rushed back to the barracks and told his troops what he had found.
Greg’s work on Baronium was done for the time being. He had to report back to the primary Imperial fortress, located in Alpha sector known as The Right Hand of God. He did not want his superiors curious as to his long absence, so he decided to report to them and the council, explaining his mission on Nassau, from which he was meant to return long ago.
The fortress was massive, ten times the size of the sector control platforms in the other sectors of space. It was big enough to consume earth and the nearby planets together; its defences and standing fleet were so incredible that it was doubted that any army in the known galaxy could defeat it. Its troops numbered in the millions, and it was not only a station but a sprawling metropolis as well. Five planets all connected via space platforms; you could literally drive a car from one planet to another, with artificial gravity stations that helped maintained stability. It was the single most awe inspiring sight ever beheld to man; it was said to have been able to be seen from any planet in Alpha sector, and even Delta sector as well, and seen clearly for that matter. No army was stronger, no fleet was larger; nothing could destroy this fortress, and the Imperium knew that. Greg, on the other hand, had a feeling that something was about to happen, that there would be a force willing enough to challenge the Imperium’s claim to almighty power, and to perhaps defeat them.
CHAPTER 7
Greg thought it his duty to warn the Imperium of the oncoming darkness, but what the Chairman told him, kept his words at bay. If he told the Emperor what was going on, he might be considered insane. Without the Chairman’s influence, he needed to find a way to discover what was happening, with or without his beloved Imperium.
Greg disembarked, with his private first class, Jay Deeks, in the grand star port, located in the central plaza of the Right Hand of God. He made his way towards the Imperium Citadel, which was the home of the council. The courthouse was known as the Sanctum of Justice, the primary location for the council members of the Imperium to make their executive decisions, without the popular vote of the civilian population. Greg entered the incredible hall; the ceiling was a hundred feet high, and the walls and floors paved with an intricately designed marble. The Sanctum of Justice was circular, and the seats of the council members were organized in a circle around a single central podium, where those put on trial, or had an audience, would stand.
Greg and Deeks approached the stand; they took the Oath to Order, and sat down. The council members grumbled and murmured to each other, thinking this meeting was a waste of time, when the Emperor entered.
“Emperor Argon Victavius, son of Hephaesticles presiding, choosing to attend this meeting personally,” stated the Imperial soldier guarding the Emperor’s council throne.
The Emperor approached his chair, and raised his hand to quiet the council. He stood tall and proud, looking the part of Emperor, as well as playing it. He was wearing a very ornate and fancy, yet fashionable, uniform—a real rich blue coloured coat with golden cufflinks and epaulets. His badges and medals consumed his upper left breast, showing his accomplishments in life; he truly was worthy of the Emperor title. He had short fair hair, not shaved, but not long; it still made him look defined and proper.
His emerald eyes glanced around the room, and caught the eyes of Greg. Greg turned his head away, believing he was not worthy to look upon the face of what the Imperium citizens believed to be the next closest thing to God. Victavius gazed around the room, and urged the officer in the centre of the room to start the debriefing. The basics were covered, as well as the standard procedures, before the real interrogation could begin; Greg was most eager for that part.
“It was a pretty straightforward mission: get in, neutralize the opposition, recover the collateral, and evacuate. We entered the facility unopposed, and reached the central labs. We could hear a firefight going on inside, so we quietly breached and secured a height advantage overlooking the battle that was already ongoing. There were two groups of combatants, one rebel and one unknown. The unknown force easily defeated the rebels, and executed surrendering soldiers as they relinquished a disc of some kind. The leader of the unknowns then immediately detected our presence, and fired upon us. We exchanged fire, but they fled with no casualties, while we suffered two. There was no trace of their escape, or their presence there altogether. It is almost as if they were ghosts,” Greg explained.
The Emperor leaned forward in his chair at this point, very keen on what Greg had to say. When everything was said and done, the Emperor sat there, stroking his chin, thinking. Greg and the council stared at Victavius like a tiger stalking its prey, eagerly awaiting the wise words of their leader.
Victavius stood up, and repeated the story briefly, getting reconfirmation from Greg and his PFC, who was a witness. His powerful and smooth voice echoed through the cold archways of the Sanctum, as he continued to ask Greg about his mission.
“These mysterious men, what was their armor like, what were they made of?” asked Victavius.
“They seemed ornate and smooth; their helmets were a different shape than what I have seen. They were bucket like, but with a dip at the ears, leading to a lower part that surrounded the back of the head. It was hard to see in great detail, but the bucket like helmet seemed to be a top to their face masks, which covered all skin from what we could see,” responded Greg.
“What of their insignias? Did they bear any emblems? Colours?” asked Victavius, getting much keener.
“They bore no distinctive marks, or any designs in equipment, that would warrant a resemblance to anything I have seen. Their armor, and even the coat of the masked man, was as black as night, and they had circular light emitting goggles that were as red as blood,” replied Greg.
“And of the masked man in charge, describe him again.”
“Well, he stood straight and gallant, and wore a long black leather trench coat that reached the ankles of his boots. His leather boots were high, reaching up his shin just below the knee. From what I could see, he seemed to have a very fancy black dress uniform underneath his coat; all I could make out, at that distance, was some silver buttons and decorations upon the jacket. Atop his head sat a fancy, peaked cap which bore a badge or broach above the visor; it seemed to be a bird of some kind. The most defining feature of this man was his mask; it was solid, dark, and covered the entirety of his head and chin, only stopping at the neck. I could not see skin, so he must have had a neck guard as well that connected to something beneath his uniform. The mask was plain, but he had quite intimidating, yet simple, goggle lenses. He carried an antique pistol, at least, I think it was an antique; it looked old, and I have never seen its like before. The sound it made was a sound I had not heard before. His aim was impeccable as he shot to disarm me,” Greg described.
“How do you know his aim was impeccable, if you are still alive?” asked a random politician who stood in the background.