“You said you’ve been on Prometheus before. How long ago was that?”
She leaned back to give him space but Spartan simply shrugged and ignored the question. Misaki raised an eyebrow in frustration but he refused to back down so she tried a different tack.
“Is that where you joined the Marine Corps? What happened then, did they ship you off right away?”
Spartan shuffled uncomfortably on the hard wooden surface.
“No, they posted me on a rookie transport and training programme through the sector. They told me it was a long trip from Prometheus to Prime, they say it’s because of the storms, I don’t think so though. I know ships have done it in a few months.”
“So why did they take so long then?”
“I think it’s more likely they were taking it slow to get green units like mine trained up for the meat grinder at the Bone Mill. I’ve heard since that the recruiting ships normally took newbies directly to Prime for training in a few months, they must have slowed down to get us trained before we hit the planet. If that’s true they already knew we had people that couldn’t be trusted on the surface.”
“Sounds sensible to me, no point landing rookies directly into a warzone. Did you realise what was happening during your training?”
“No, we were all way, way too busy. I think we picked up extra recruits and equipment at stations on the way but they never told us where we were or where we were going. After a week’s worth of training you don’t really care which piece of black space you’re travelling through, believe me!”
His mind drifted off to Teresa and their time on the Santa Maria. It was weird but those weeks of physical and mental endurance were some of the highlights of the last year for him. After years of moving from place to place he had bizarrely found a home amongst the rough but unpredictable world of the Marine Corps.
“How about you Misaki? What happened and why are you here?”
“Good question. I was on a colonial tour with my dance company when we were raided.”
“Raided? Why?”
“There were some protests on Kerberos that our routines were, well let’s say a little risqué!” she said with a sly grin.
“Strip dancing?”
“No...nothing like that. Our group is more like the old burlesque troupes you can sometimes see on Terra Nova.”
“Never been to Nova, it’s a long, expensive trip to the old worlds.” He looked down at the floor in thought. “Wait, you said you were raided? By the police?”
“Well, we thought it was police at first which is weird because we were all licensed up to run shows on any colony we were invited to. The men wore no insignia but they were in normal riot police clothing. They said we had breached the peace and took us all away. Next thing I knew I was on the ship, in chains and drowsy.”
“That doesn’t sound like the police to me and these people definitely have links to the Zealots and their sympathisers.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, each looking out through the bars and watching the lines of prisoners moving off for their allotted tasks and work projects. It seemed that they were able to avoid this extra work but only at the price of risking their lives by participating in the various tests the Governor had set. As Spartan sat there thinking he noticed Misaki watching him. Her face was tight and the stress obvious. He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of anything particularly reassuring. She had been dragged from her work in almost the same manner as he was, all this just for performing some kind of dance. He thought about the dance she had talked about before realising he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Burlesque?”
Misaki looked at him intently, a little surprised at the question. “Yes?”
“I’ve never heard of it. What is it? Some kind of ethnic dance?”
“Not really. It is part dance and part act with an emphasis on style and sexiness. It can include striptease, garish costumes, bawdy humour, that kind of thing.”
“”Oh...I see.” Though his response suggested the exact opposite.
As they sat in an uncomfortable silence a pair of the guards approached. Spartan looked at Misaki and then at the floor, giving her a visual cue to look down and avoid eye contact with their tormentors. The footsteps stopped, they were waiting outside the door. With a grinding sound the door slid open. Spartan turned to see the men pointing their weapons directly at his chest.
“Spartan?” the first asked.
“Maybe.”
“Come with us, the Governor wants a word,” the second ordered as he gestured with his shotgun for him to stand.
Spartan looked around the room, most of the prisoners were watching though none said a word for fear of reprisal from the guards. Spartan moved but before he could stand up the first guard took a step back.
“Take it slow...that’s it, nice and easy.” The guard appeared far more nervous than Spartan would have expected.
As he stood up a third, unseen man approached and attached a metal rod to Spartan’s manacles. As before they could hold him off at a distance so he couldn’t grab or kick at them. As soon as he was past the frame of the door it was quickly shut to stop anybody else following them. The first guard moved in front of Spartan. He came close but not too close.
“Play your cards right and this could be your ticket out...soldier boy.” He slammed his shotgun butt into Spartan’s stomach.
Spartan dropped back and spluttered as the impact drove hard into his torso. It wasn’t enough to drop him though and he quickly straightened up, his height and mass easily dwarfing the guard.
“Okay, tough guy, come.”
With a push Spartan found himself moving behind the guard and followed by at least two more of them. Though he was desperate to escape there was nothing he could do when locked up and surrounded like this. As they moved away he looked around at the people coming back from their other duties. Most were filthy. They looked as if they had done hard physical work, possibly mining or construction. Based on the filth he thought the former was more likely. The guards continued nudging Spartan towards a cylindrical metal doorway at the side of the open space. It had no obvious markings or features and could easily have been some form of blast shield. The guard in front spoke into his helmet-mounted intercom unit. The words were too quiet for Spartan to make out but they must have been to give clearance to open the door. With a mechanical whirr the door slid around to the right to expose a small cylindrical room. The guards behind pushed him inside and followed closely. Once the four were all inside the door shut and low level white lighting illuminating the room. The floor shook and Spartan felt slightly lighter as the room went down at high speed.
“Where are we going?”
The guards ignored him, simply standing still and waiting. Somewhere in the walls a speaker system sent a series of codes and beeps but it meant nothing to him. He felt his legs becoming heavier again and then with a gentle bump they stopped. The door slid open to reveal a short corridor that led to a closed door. With a click the metal bar detached from his manacles and the guards stepped back inside the room. Concern for the unknown sent a shiver down his spine as he stepped out into the featureless corridor.
“Head to the door,” ordered the guard and then the door slid shut leaving Spartan alone in the corridor.
It was weird, very weird. He had gone from being taken and guarded by heavily armed men, to now being totally alone with no sign of the enemy. He felt even more a prisoner than when he was manacled, at least then he knew where he was and had a certain expectation of what to expect. The door behind was of massively thick metal and sealed. The walls were smooth and hard and the only object that broke up the shape was the door at the end of the hallway. As he stood there he wondered if there was anything he could do other than approach the door. He touched the door behind him. It felt cool, much cooler than anything else he had been near since his arrival. The surface was ultra smooth, almost polished in appearance. Pushing against it wa
s no different to pushing against a stone wall, it refused to move even a millimetre. His gut told him to do something, anything other than what he had been told to do. It was pointless though, he had two choices, either wait or move ahead.
“Screw this!” he muttered and marched off for the door.
It might have led to something worse but the waiting was just as bad and if it was terrible he wanted it over with as quickly as possible. After his experiences in the ring and in combat he understood the unreasoning fear that gripped a man as he awaited his fate. With a final look behind he walked faster, ever watchful for anything, a marking, an object or handle that might give him cause for hope. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling for something. As he reached the door he found nothing, not even a scratch. Pushing his hand forward the door slid to the side to reveal a brightly lit room. The door was almost silent, more a hiss than a mechanical rhythm.
“Come in,” came a firm voice from inside the room.
Spartan stepped forward, squinting at the light as he entered. With a whistle sound the door slid shut behind him. In front was a large metal desk and around the room what looked like cylindrical windows. Outside was the stillness and tranquillity of water. For a moment Spartan thought they were under an ocean but he quickly remembered they were on an inhospitable planet of fire and lava. Hardly the view you would want from your windows and definitely not a cool ocean. He thought to himself, was there even any water on the planet, before remembering where he was.
“I see you’re admiring the view?” said the man sat at the desk.
Spartan said nothing, he’d already worked out they were deep underground and this room contained fake windows, much like the artificial windows on board the Confederate Navy vessels. By projecting an image onto the wall or a pre-allocated space the illusion of any location could be created.
“Nice view,” replied Spartan in a calm a tone as he could muster.
“Quite,” he replied, then took a gulp of water from a glass on the desk.
“You are probably wondering why I have asked for you to be brought to me?”
“You’re Governor Richards?”
“Indeed. I see your memory is intact...good. Now, I have been reading your dossier and I see there are some, shall we say, slightly colourful episodes in your life over the last ten years?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? I don’t think so. A man with your background and training is wasted in the service of Marine Corps. Do they even know about your history before that unfortunate pit fight incident?”
“Incident? I was forced to fight to pay my debts, I had no choice!” Spartan was getting angry.
“I’m not really interested in that, I would rather hear your side of the story about the years before you joined the military. My contacts inform me that several members of your family were killed by colonial security forces, the forces who now serve the same master as yourself. Don’t you find that a little ironic?”
Spartan fidgeted, he was uncomfortable as he listened to the man’s questions. There didn’t appear to be any guards and the room was bare apart from the two chairs, the desk and the windows. He thought of rushing ahead and grabbing the Governor but it couldn’t be that easy, not a chance.
“You don’t know about my family.”
“Oh the contrary, I know all about your family. You will find our records are far more detailed than those of the so called Confederacy.”
He moved his hand across the desk and brought up a series of virtual documents and photographs that he moved over to Spartan’s side. He glanced at them but took no interest as the past meant little to him. He had always lived in the here and now and talking to this man was the price he had to pay while he worked out his escape plan.
“Did you know your parents were pilgrims? They were involved in the founding of some of the Church’s most influential buildings. You don’t remember them do you?”
“Remember what? It says on my records what happened to me and there is nothing about pilgrims or any other crap. Come on, your reports are shit. You don’t even have my father’s name!”
The man looked a little angry at his outburst and even a little disappointed.
“Your records state your parents died in a car crash when you were an infant. They found you near a burnt wreck and took you to hospital. Ten years later and you were still moving from children’s homes. The interesting thing though is that we both know that isn’t how it happened, don’t we?”
Spartan had blocked out most of his childhood and he could feel the old memories starting to surface. With effort he forced them back down and looked at the Governor.
“I don’t care about the past. I’m only interested in what happens next.”
“The second part I don’t doubt. Well, you’re in luck, Spartan. As you may have noticed, unlike the Confederacy, our organisation is moving up in the world. This facility is one of many and it is going to provide a future for every soul in this System.”
Spartan looked at him suspiciously. The mention of forces hostile to those he served felt alien to him, though he couldn’t deny that the Confederacy had taken serious blows in the last months as the insurgency grew.
“You have probably already worked out that this isn’t a Confederate facility, it isn’t even an official Promethean outpost. This entire centre is owned outright by the Drakaina Research Corporation and the great work we are doing here will help change this entire System for the better.” He pressed a few buttons at the end of the desk.
Spartan looked around the room and then back to where a number of three-dimensional diagrams appeared showing the layout of the complex. As he watched he was shocked to see how far underground the compound went. If this was true the site was easily twenty times bigger than he had thought, large enough to hide an entire colony if required to. The display altered slightly and followed several shafts moving out from the site.
“As you can see here, we are expanding into the bedrock where we will establish additional laboratories and factories. You might think we are treating you poorly, Spartan, but trust me, this is all for the greater good.”
Spartan stared at him, his expression obvious. “Bullshit!”
“Quite,” replied the Governor before continuing, “the Confederacy has never been strong. Each colony is independent, too independent while the political and military wings of the state have trouble maintaining order. It is inevitable that the structure will collapse, the only question is how many will die in the conflagration that will burn through every colony.”
“How many will die? The insurgency is responsible for the deaths of thousands already!” replied an angry Spartan.
“Some must die if the colonies are to be reborn into a single safe, powerful and secure empire for its citizens.”
“And your solution for this is to stir up trouble so the colonies tear themselves apart?”
“We need to start from the beginning. A new slate if you will, and there is no point in trying to fight the Confederacy, even weakened it will fight for decades. With the help of people like you we can simply make the Confederacy impotent, remove them from the equation and replace them with a new, solid foundation as part of a new union of colonies.”
Spartan shook his head. Though some of the ideas seemed reasonable he knew deep down that this man must be tied in with the insurgents and if that were true then their religious and social doctrine wouldn’t be far behind. He’d already seen what religious fanaticism was capable of and he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“It is my job to provide a large part of the resources needed by our people to rebuild this star system. As we sit here thousands of undesirables work to expand this complex, right under the noses of your Confederation lackeys. We are always looking for new recruits to lead combat forces and to represent the public face of the organisation.”
For a moment Spartan was tempted to get physical and hit or strike, anything othe
r than listen to the drone from this man. He really wasn’t interested in politics but it was obvious something big was planned and he was being offered a chance to take part in it.
“Why would I want to join you?”
“A fair point. First of all, your training and skills have been brought to our attention. You have fought in multiple engagements where you have overcome overwhelming odds. We have many resources but we are always looking out for those with more specialist skills and the experience to do what needs to be done. If you join us you will become part of the solution, not the problem. The rewards will be great and in time you can expect to see your status improve immeasurably.”
The Governor was obviously finished and placed both hands on the desk, indicating he wanted a response from Spartan.
“You aren’t giving me the whole story here. Who exactly is ‘us’? Your corporation doesn’t operate on its own, what are your relations with the Church or the Zealots?”
“Relationship? Come now, surely you must have realised by now that there are no factions or interested parties involved. These are just names, the public faces for our movement. Join us and help change the Confederacy into what it should be.”
Spartan had to force himself not to slam his fist onto the desk. He was trying to think ahead but it didn’t seem to be helping. He could of course say yes and try and work out a way to escape by working within the system or he could go back to the cell with the rest of the prisoners and await his fate. From what he had seen, if they were being put up against Biomechs every day then their days were numbered.
“Okay, I’m interested. I don’t really care for the Confederacy one way or the other. It’s just an employer for me and not one I would have chosen given the choice.”
“Of course. I notice you were given the option of jail or service. If you are considering joining our enterprise we will need a demonstration of your loyalty, the same as for anybody else joining us. We expect and demand total loyalty and subservience to our authority for everyone. That goes from the lowliest of cleaners up through to our generals.”
Fires of Prometheus Page 11