Saturnius Mons

by Jeremy L. Jones

  Althea rushed into the crowd gripped with a need to save just a few. Maybe even one. Gunfire echoed between the buildings as she pushed her way through the waiting crowd. It wasn’t long before she came upon a man lying on the ground. His face was streaked with blood where something, maybe a chunk of debris or a bullet, had hit him.

  She knelt beside him, “Can you stand?”

  More gun shots. Althea looked up and saw five Perfinduloi warriors standing on the top of the rubble that used to be part of the wall. They fired shots into the crowd while they threw rocks, bolo snares and anything they could at them. One gunman, hit in the head with a rock, fell back, but the rest kept firing.

  She took the man by the arm, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  The man pulled his arm out of her grasp. “No! Mi Atendas!”

  Althea tried again but the man pulled away and said, with a certain finality, “Mi Atendas!”

  Althea stood and backed away. Everyone around her just stood watching the sky. Over the wall, a sliver of the sun still showed from behind Saturn.

  Viekko woke up looking at the orange clouds of Titan. The disk of the sun was almost completely hidden behind Saturn. Gunshots rang in the air all around him. The events of the last few seconds flashed in his brain. He had been knocked out but, thankfully, only for a matter of seconds.

  He rolled onto his stomach and felt an agonizing, fiery pain in his side. He lifted his body just enough to see a blood stain spreading in his clothes and dripping into the grass. He must have been hit by a piece of shrapnel. He wiggled his toes and realized, with some relief, that they were still there. He looked for the assault rifle but couldn’t find it.

  His attention focused to the gunfire around him. Bullets whizzed in all directions, but no one fired directly at him. In the deep grass, Viekko was invisible and presumed dead. Where the third rail gun had been a moment ago, there was a deep, smoldering crater. It was better cover than he had now. He started crawling on his stomach towards it. Every movement felt like he was tearing the wound in his side deeper.

  He reached the crater and tumbled in. He slid in the wet, muddy ground about halfway into the hole. He flipped onto his back and unholstered one of his handguns and replaced the spent clip. As it snapped into place, a couple of marines appeared over the lip of the crater. Viekko calmly aimed his gun and fired. He hit both in the head and they were dead before their bodies slid to the muddy bottom.

  Viekko maneuvered his way to the other side of the hole so he could peek over at the fourth rail gun and its crew. As soon as his head appeared over the top, several marines fired. He quickly ducked back into the hole, but he continued to hear gunfire from the direction of the rail gun.

  He pulled up his sleeve to look at the display on his EROS suit. By some miracle, it was not damaged.

  He raised his wrist to his mouth and said, “Call Althea.”

  He waited a moment and then heard Althea’s voice in his ear. “Viekko! Are you okay?”

  Viekko gulped. “I’m hurt. I’m hurt bad. They got me pinned down and I don’t think I’m getting out of here.”

  He heard the whine of the rail gun charging.

  Before Althea could respond, he continued. “You and Isra gotta find a way to disable that last gun. If you can’t, evacuate the area. Go back to the base camp.”

  “Where are you?” said Althea.

  Viekko winced. “Just do as I say! Forget about me, you gotta take care of yourself.”

  The fading light dimmed to black as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind Saturn. The rings brilliantly lit the sky while the gas giant itself appeared as black as a sphere of flint.

  Another pause and Althea said, “Viekko…there’s something…happening.”

  Something was happening. Cronus scanned the matrices as, row by row, the numbers changed and then whole programs shut down. Cronus closed out that part of the program and tried to access new parts of the system, but as fast as he could pull new data up from the servers below, they froze and stopped transmitting.

  Was there something physically wrong with the server farms? Cronus got up and walked over to the edge of the catwalk. He had gotten used to the soft steps of the acolytes below along with the small sounds of their work. But now it was completely silent. The acolytes, who seemed a constant fixture wandering the space in between the servers, were absent.

  Cronus sat back down. It was strange. The maintenance of this computer system was, as near as he could figure, the entire purpose of those people’s existence. They were priests tending to the God of the Machine. If something was wrong, why would they leave? The simple answer was that nothing was wrong.

  Cronus gripped the edge of the chair as the entire building started vibrating.

  Viekko peaked over the lip of the crater again. The battle just stopped. Dead. As if somebody had gone out there and called a timeout on account of the darkness. The marines nearest him pointed at the city, specifically the golden pyramid that glowed even in the darkness. Four panels that formed the cap spread apart and slid down the side of the pyramid and several dark figures jumped up from the now exposed top. They shot into the clouds one or two at a time just seconds apart.

  He knew immediately what he was seeing, although he was not sure he could or wanted to believe it. It was the Venganto, the avenging angels that the Houston talked about in his speech. Viekko figured it to be a myth or a story. Something to tell the kiddies while tucking them into bed. ‘Don’t be afraid, little one, the Venganto watch over us.’ That sort of thing.

  The forest people attacking the city seemed to know it too. As fast as they charged the holes, they turned and ran back toward Viekko, back toward the safety of the forest. As they did, he saw the dark figures in the skies overhead moving so fast that he could only make out flashes of movement against the clouds. They started diving towards the fleeing soldiers and everywhere they did flashes of light and fountains of flame erupted.

  Viekko started to crawl out of the hole still holding the spot in his guts where the piece of shrapnel hit him. He got up and started stumbling forward toward the city, keeping a low profile so one of those things in the sky didn’t mark him as a hostile.

  The Perfiduloi were running past him in desperation. He shielded his eyes from two bursts of flame and ignored the agonized screams from the poor bastards caught in the blast. It was brutal, but it was war. Nobody should ever feel bad about going home after a war, no matter what happened to those who didn’t. That’s what he told himself as he staggered forward thinking fond thoughts about a soft bed, Althea’s face, and some drugs that would make reality feel a whole lot better.

  One of the forest people ran at him but stumbled and fell hard in the mud. Viekko was going to walk right on by until he noticed a bolo snare around the man’s legs. He got out of the way just as three Urbanoi people—not soldiers, just citizens by the look of them—pulled the man to his feet. One took a club and gave the Perfiduloi man a blow to the gut that Viekko could almost feel where he stood.

  He turned his head away and kept staggering forward. He tried to focus his mind on rest for his sore muscles, medication for his wound, and maybe a touch of triple-T for his mind.

  Nearby, he watched one of the forest people take a blow to the head so hard he swore he could hear the crack of bone splintering. The man had his hands tied behind him and he crumbled to the ground like someone just let the air out of him. An Urbanoi soldier grabbed the man by the arm and started dragging him back to the city.

  Viekko pushed himself forward, toward the gates. Isra could fix this. That was her job. His job was to kill things. That was what he was good at. Isra’s job was to get people to link arms and sing happy songs. And if everywhere he looked on this bloody field, he saw a people who had fought a brave and noble battle beaten down and put in a slaver’s chains…well, that was just the way things were going to be. A jolt in his side reminded him that he was in no state to do anything about it
anyway.

  A young Perfiduloi man, just barely old enough to grow the scraggly beginnings of a beard, came running up at him, chased by a small pack of Urbanoi citizens. He was wild-eyed with fear and he seemed to call out to Viekko.

  He wanted to say to the kid, ‘Sorry. This is war. I can’t help you.’

  The citizens caught up to him. One threw his arm around the boy’s neck while another hit in the sternum with his club. Even through the wails and din of battle, Viekko heard the boy scream.

  Viekko limped forward thinking, Ain’t no good gonna come from me gettin’ in the middle of this. I’ll find a way to help you and yours later.

  The boy fell down in the mud. The citizens went to pick him up.

  Sorry kid. I want to help but-

  The citizens pulled the kid to his feet and he locked eyes with Viekko for one heartbreaking moment. Viekko’s mind flashed back to the refinery. The blood-stained concrete, the bursts of scalding steam and emaciated forest people running for freedom.

  Viekko realized why the term ‘rescued’ had such an unsettling tone. He also realized what the future had in store for this kid if Viekko didn’t do anything.

  Damn it...fine.

  Viekko pulled one of his guns from his shoulder holster. If the citizens even knew Viekko was standing where he was, they didn’t show it. The just started dragging the Perfiduloi youth away when Viekko fired off a shot. Then another, then another.

  Three city people slumped to the ground dead and a fourth gasped in horror and ran. Viekko took the kid by the arm and bolted for the tree line. The pain in his side was so intense that it made him dizzy and every bone and muscle screamed in protest as they worked against the EROS suit, but Viekko kept running.

  It was an old cliché. There’s no way he could stop the Urbanoi taking who they liked and throwing them in that hell of a refinery to die. But if he could save one, just one…well, maybe he’d quiet the guilt twisting in his gut enough to get himself fixed up.

  Out past the immediate vicinity of the walls, the Venganto mopped up the few pockets of resistance that remained in the field, mostly clusters of Perfiduloi who hadn’t made it to the safety of the forest yet. The dark field was lit up by bursts of flame as Viekko dragged the kid to safety.

  Under the forest canopy felt like a different world. The darkness and quiet were all-enveloping. The thunderous roar of the Venganto attacks, the screams and war cries seemed a long way off. Viekko stopped to catch his breath and looked at the kid.

  Even though he couldn’t understand a word, Viekko said, “You’re safe. Now get goin’.”

  The boy got real scared all of a sudden. He backed away and shouted something at Viekko.

  “Damn it boy! Keep quiet. Keep low and—”

  Something crashed down on Viekko’s head and rattled his brain inside his skull like a bell clapper. The next thing he was aware of, he was face down in the thick Titanian mud. Someone was sitting on his legs pulling his arms behind him and tying them with some sort of rope.

  There was arguing in the native language. He couldn’t make it out, but the tempo and volume of the back-and-forth discussion held all the marks of a heated debate.

  Two more people, older forest men it turned out, pulled Viekko to his knees and started to lift him to his feet. One Perfiduloi with a spear prodded Viekko’s chest with the butt and hit one of his guns in a shoulder holster. “Viaj armiloj! Guto!”

  Two other men reached inside Viekko’s jacket and relieved him of his weapons. After that, they all continued to pat him down while the kid he saved just looked at him on the verge of tears.

  So, that was the way it was going to be. Viekko was a prisoner. He contemplated making a run for it; getting a good sprint, and a long jump. Chances were he could do it fast enough that they wouldn’t follow. Then the throbbing pain and lightheadedness came back to him. He was badly injured and was losing blood.

  When they were finished, the one with the spear prodded Viekko in the back of the leg with the point. Viekko started walking into the darkness of the forest, escorted by the men as their prisoner.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Every Corporation assault that destroyed a village persuaded hundreds to join the revolution. Every airstrike that leveled a training area was better than a hundred recruiting events. Pictures of rebel soldiers and their families executed and thrown into mass graves was the greatest propaganda available.

  The Corporation’s early campaigns were famously successful and every victory brought them closer to their own demise.

  -from The Fall: The Decline and Failure of 21st Century Civilization by Martin Raffe.

  The sun appeared once again from behind Saturn. Isra watched with wonder as the Venganto darted across the sky and disappeared into tip of the pyramid like bats fleeing the daylight.

  Inside the City, victory was more brutal than defeat. The ecstasy of triumph ripped off the mask off the city and exposed the true face of the Urbanoi. By disabling the railguns, Viekko kept the city from being torn apart, and now Isra watched people stream out of the broken walls and swarm over their fallen opponent like wild dogs.

  She walked in step with the Houston. He wore a beatific grin complete with a serenity to his movements as he watched the skies. “It is as I described,” said the Houston startling her, “The enemies of the Kompanio are driven away. Urbano Ligeia is safe again.”

  Isra watched the first of the city’s warriors drag their prizes, bound in rope and shackles, inside the walls. The people cheered as they pushed and prodded the captured Perfiduloi to the grassy spot near the gates. A whole processing apparatus had been set up so fast that Isra didn’t even notice it being put together. People hauled out cages as large as a house and filled them with prisoners. Even then, there was so little space that many Perfiduloi were tied to lamp posts, railings, and any other easily accessible fixture. In a sick way, there was something comical about the short, squat Urbanoi forcing the tall, slender Perfiduloi to kneel in a line. Isra thought the forest people’s size alone would prevent them from being taken and held. But, there they were, kneeling while citizens hacked off their long hair and beards with finger-length blades. When they were done, the men’s facial hair was cut to stubble on their chin and both sexes were left with a patch of short, rough hair on their heads.

  From there, they were hosed down with cold water fed by hands pumps, given plain brown clothing, strapped together chain-gang-style at their ankles, and led away in teams of five to ten. The efficiency by which dozens of people were stripped of their humanity was both impressive and terrifying.

  As they walked, Isra occasionally caught the eye of one of the Urbanoi herding prisoners to be processed or performing some dehumanizing task. There was nothing there except cold, mechanical resolve. As if every person in the city snuffed out their spark of human compassion long enough to complete the task.

  When her eyes met those of the Perfiduloi, Isra felt her heart being wrenched out of her body. A man bloodied from so many beatings hauled to his feet to have his hands bound, a woman crying as her hair was cut down to her scalp, a whole group strapped together at the ankles and beaten as they were driven away; each left an indelible scar on Isra’s soul when she looked at them. She closed her eyes and forced her feelings down. There would be a time to grieve for these people. There would be a time to raise her voice and, if necessary, arms in opposition to this brutal oppression. But one failed attempt would not discourage Laban and the Corporation. They would try again and it would require a united resistance to stop them. The Corporate chains were not as tangible but no less real and much harder to break.

  The Houston observed the work as if the people being dragged into the city were nothing but livestock. “The Kompanio has surely blessed us. With these prisoners of war, we will be able to restore the refineries and bring order to the world.” He glanced over at Isra and added, “You do not approve.”

  Isra sucked a bit of air through her teet
h. She let the scene affect her and it showed. She’d have to watch herself. “The Venganto did drive away the outsiders, but it is only temporary. This attack was a fraction of their potential force and, next time, they will not hesitate to use it all. These people that you are subjugating, you will need to fight alongside them if you have any hope of surviving.”

  “They are enemies of the Kompanio. They have shown this by allying with its enemies, just as they did so long ago. This is why they are forced to live in the forest away from the blessed presence of the Kompanio. This is why they must purify their souls in the refineries.

  Isra shook her head but her voice remained cool and impassive. “I am afraid you do not understand the threat these outsiders pose. It is unlike—”

  The Houston cut her off. “I am aware of the danger. It is greater than even you know. I have felt an imbalance. Titan is suffering.”

  Isra looked away as several citizens threw a resisting Perfiduloi man to the ground and beat him with clubs. “I do not understand. What imbalance?”

  The Houston sniffed the air, “Can you not sense it? There is a change. A sickness. What we do here may seem cruel, but the Kompanio demands it to restore balance. Without the Kompanio, Titan dies.”

  Isra had been avoiding the subject until now, but it couldn’t be ignored anymore. It was on display, brazenly. Proudly, even. Isra looked up at the Houston. “Is that why you killed all those people outside the city gates? Did you burn those Perfiduloi to maintain balance?”

  To her surprise, the Houston stiffened. “That was not me or my people. The Perfiduloi were in direct confrontation with the Kompanio and were judged by the Venganto. I wept for those souls, for they will never see Earth.”