The Final Wars Begin

by S A Asthana

  Gorgeous woman. A silken-skinned panther.

  She took a seat at the table, and Bastien found himself face to face with the enigmatic cyborg. The knot in his stomach tightened.

  At first Marie said nothing. She just stared into his eyes as if trying to read his soul page by page. Text, footnotes and all. Bastien rapped his fingers on the table, trying to fill in the awkward silence.

  “Those irises… a beautiful mutation,” Marie finally said.

  A mutation, indeed. Bastien had yet to come across anyone else with the same eyes.

  “Are you a whiskey man?”

  An abrupt segue but one that sparked a memory—cadets drinking away their day’s pain late at night. A bottle shared among friends. Bastien had acquired a taste for Nipponese single malts during boot camps. Those early days were fond memories in the years before alcohol was banned by the High Council to boost citizens’ productivity. He nodded at her.

  “Good, my kind of soldat.” Marie smiled in an unsettling, friendly way.

  The taller of the guards, broad-shouldered and heavily bearded, poured both Bastien and Marie a glass, all the while keeping a stern glare fixed on the outlaw. “You must excuse Hafiz here. He’s very protective of his dear goddess. Do focus on the Yamazaki, though. It is the best you’ll ever taste, aged fifty years—lovely import from the Nips.”

  After taking a sip, she closed her eyes as the drink made its way down her throat. A dark red tongue circled her lips. “Let me tell you a story.” Marie adjusted her position to one of power—legs crossed, left arm resting on the back of the chair, right hand firmly holding the drink in front. She took another sip, this one quickly. “When I was ten years old, I asked my father if I could take the throne whenever he decided to step down. I was slapped across the face and told no. I was told it belonged to my sister… because of her being the eldest. I kept the sharp sting of my father’s judgment to myself and never spoke of it to anyone.”

  She took another sip, her sapphire eyes focused on Bastien as if awaiting a response. There was none, and so she continued. “I asked him the same question when I was fifteen only to be told the same thing. No, Marie, the throne belongs to Belle—you know that. I was slapped again, this time hard enough to make my nose bleed. I burned for years until I approached my père a third time. I was eighteen. I asked the same question. Care to guess what he said?”

  She leaned her elbows on the table. Bastien blinked, not sure how to respond. Sweat fell down his forehead like rainfall. “He… told you again it would be… Belle’s?”

  “He couldn’t tell me anything.” She flashed a megawatt smile. “You can’t say much when your throat is slit.”

  She was crazy. A murderous psychopath. Bastien would have given anything to just know who his own father was, but Marie had killed hers because of a bloody tantrum. “I would’ve done the same to Belle, but the bitch escaped.”

  The admission should have come as a shock but it actually made perfect sense. The official announcement had explained that a freak explosion aboard a spacecraft in route to Nippon One had killed the King and his heir. That had always seemed odd. A bit too convenient, in fact. No one had dared raise a finger at the time, though. There were too many loyalists—men who’d worshipped Marie as their one true God. Looks, charms and exaggerated promises of a better life often trumped birthrights. So did a salacious reputation. She’d been their vehicle for change, a shift from rule that valued secularism to one where an enchanting goddess rightfully sat upon the throne. They would have killed to protect her, the woman who’d assured their lives would improve markedly under her reign. And so, the twisted turn of events had played out uncontested.

  Bastien’s hands, both curled into fists, rested on his thighs and his back remained straight as an arrow. With eyes searching the table he asked, “What do you want from me?”

  Marie leaned back again. “I hear you were a high ranking officier militaire up at Port Sydney. One of the best. A true soldat, until you killed your companions in cold blood. So now you’re a fugitif. And those wanted by Martians always get caught. You, of all people, should know that.”

  She was right. Port Sydney’s success rate for catching criminals was close to one hundred percent. Bastien had himself been part of successful raids on four different occasions. Two interplanetary pursuits of pirates, plus two hunts for anarchists across rugged Martian terrain. All effective missions. Finding him holed up here in New Paris wouldn’t be too difficult.

  But the question still remained unanswered. What did she want from him?

  “I, mon amour… I can save your life.” Marie sported a dimpled grin while enjoying the display of power. The suit of authority fit her well, its wrinkles having been ironed away ages ago. “But there’s something I require in return, of course.”

  The answer, almost. But her silence was drawn out as if on purpose to make what came next even more dramatic. She was good.

  “I want you, Bastien Lyons, to kill someone for me.” Marie set the empty whiskey glass on the table. Hafiz stepped forward and filled it up once more like a robot following lines of code blindly. “Belle has returned and wants her throne. She needs to be exterminated.”

  There it was. But it didn’t make sense.

  “Wait, why me?” Bastien set down his whiskey. “Why not have your loups kill her?”

  Marie shot Hafiz a glance. “It hasn’t worked. I need someone… much more skilled. Someone trained to hunt. Like a high-ranking Martian Lieutenant General.”

  “Well, it’s not me.” His knot tightened further.

  Marie ignored the protest. “Belle’s a complete thorn in my side. She survives somewhere in this city… shielded by a group of supporters who call themselves the Jacobins—a bunch of third-rate misfits who liken themselves to revolutionaries of the past.”

  “I am not an assassin,” Bastien pressed, surprised by his own boldness.

  The Queen’s nose crinkled in anger. “You need to find the bitch and end her.”

  Bastien shook his head.

  Marie stood and leaned forward, her knuckles resting on the table. “If you don’t do this, I’ll turn you over to the Martians. They’ll spit your body out into space.”

  “Fine by me,” Bastien bluffed. “Despite what you’ve heard, I am not a murderer. You’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Imbécile!” Hafiz slapped him into silence.

  Blood made its way out the left nostril—his assailant’s hand was carved as if from stone. Stars danced just ahead. Bastien slumped back in his chair with a throbbing cheek.

  Marie raised her hand. “No need for all that.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her body loosened as if shifting gears. “Look… I understand your resistance. But if you do my bidding, you will get back your life. The law will never find you here because I will offer protection not only while the task is being completed, but also afterward.”

  You will get back your life. The law will never find you. The words echoed in the small room. Or was that just his imagination?

  Marie was persistent. But something had been overlooked. “You’d protect me against the Martians?” Bastien’s eyebrows rose. “Aren’t you worried about… repercussions?"

  The Trilateral Treaty. It loomed large like the sun. Ignoring it was akin to the planets not understanding their place in the Solar System and smashing into one another. The document dated back to the end of World War Three and governed inter-colony relations. Its words were binding. Article 11, The Extradition of Criminals, was clear—each colony was obligated to extradite an individual if he or she was accused of committing a crime in another colony or had been convicted of crime in that other jurisdiction, and any harboring of such individuals was an act of defiance towards peace amongst the colonies. Period. There was no room for interpretation. Bastien had read the article a hundred times—it had been a core part of military coursework. He’d memorized the treaty and its fourteen governing articles inside and out. If Marie ignored the document a
nd was found out, her non-compliance would result in sanctions and other economic woes. She’d be putting herself and New Paris in a precarious position. So, why would she risk that?

  She spat out a reply, “Fuck the treaty! Port Sydney has never helped me. Ever. They’ve never traded with me, not even once. That’s a direct violation of the stupid treaty, too, if you’re going to get so fucking specific.”

  It was a violation. Article four called for fair and balanced trade amongst the three colonies. Lack of trading ties was deemed an affront to peace. But the consequences for any breach of that particular act weren’t clearly outlined. In other words, non-adherence didn’t necessarily spell doom for the aggressor. The treaty was binding, yes, but it wasn’t precisely clear like the laws of physics governing the cosmos. There were loopholes. These planets of articles could sometimes swerve from their designated orbits and avoid destruction.

  Marie crossed her arms as if she was a petulant child. “They don’t follow the treaty, so why should I?” There was a snub that warranted countering. In some twisted way, it made sense. No relationship meant the treaty didn’t hold weight—not according to her. She didn’t seem to think she owed Port Sydney anything. For her there was nothing to lose by protecting a Martian criminal and using him for her own means. If she was right and the treaty was meaningless, no harm could be done. But if she was wrong, Earth would be set on a collision course with Mars.

  “What’s your response?” she pressed. “You can’t keep running forever. That won’t end well.”

  Options were limited. The Martian military would catch him eventually, and if by some unforeseen circumstance they didn’t, one of the many bounty hunters would. He’d inevitably slip one day, and that would be the end of his lifelong marathon. If Bastien said yes and took on the task, there was no guarantee she’d keep her word. He could be turned over even if the assassination was successful. Then again, if he declined her offer, life would end right there. He’d be handcuffed once more and delivered to General Crone promptly.

  Between a rock and a hard place.

  There was another possibility though—she could actually keep her word. As unbelievable as it sounded, things could play out exactly as Marie claimed. Protection not just during but also after the task. His life could get back to normal. Or as close to normal as it could get in New Paris. He could hide down here without fear. Perhaps change his identity? Help Parisians in need. Be a Father Paul to them. He’d only have to bend his ethics and assassinate Belle. A final act of evil to leave behind all of this running and hiding for good.

  Something snapped. Maybe it was his moral compass, maybe it was something more. Either way, one thing was abundantly clear now—men had to become monsters if they wished to survive amongst monsters. Father Paul had been wrong about that after all. Bastien’s head hung, and his shoulders drooped. He heard himself ask, “What does Belle look like?”

  CHAPTER 4: BELLE

  A svelte woman, dressed in a fitted, black tracksuit, carefully slipped out a ventilation shaft and jumped down into a dimly lit corridor. Her eyes darted back and forth to confirm she was alone. The security within New Paris’s North District was tight, and rightly so, since euphoria was produced here. Packs of loups patrolled often, their rifles ready to mow down trespassers.

  Belle remained undeterred. She was aware of their schedules, down to the names of every man on each shift. Another patrol wasn’t due for at least twenty minutes. Enough time for her to break into Marie’s euphoria laboratory, kill the head chemist, destroy the production process and then break out. One, two, three, four, done. In and out. Destroy and disrupt. Destroy and disrupt, just like she’d done forty-eight times before. One time it’d been the downing of an outgoing cargo craft hauling euphoria to Nippon One. Another time, it’d been stealing an incoming shipment of rifles, gifts from the Nipponese. There was also that time she’d ignited a bomb at the East district’s entrance, killing a few loups in the process. The strategy was simple—death by a thousand cuts. Sometimes that meant a cut in Marie’s armed forces. Other times, it was a cut to her imports. This time the cut would burn—Belle was attacking the source of Marie’s profits.

  A lot of preparation had gone into this mission. Failure meant certain death. There were no margins for error.

  She crept forward catlike, ready to crouch at any moment. A shiny object caught her eye. It sparkled on the floor a few meters ahead. Closer inspection revealed it to be a small mirror, its clean surface reflecting the corridor’s lights toward her. Her half-masked face stared back. A ninja with blue cropped hair. Two eyes, both darker than space but with a hint of green, blinked away exhaustion. Bags cupped them underneath. When was the last time I slept?

  She peered down the length of the corridor and spotted a narrow, cast iron door at the end. It appeared out of place with its finely crafted surface—probably rummaged from Parisian ruins like the mirror. Most items in New Paris were vestiges of the ancient city, now repurposed, recycled.

  The deadbolt wasn’t locked, thankfully. A few paces outside that door led to the central laboratory. The ventilation shaft had deposited Belle at a near-perfect location. It would also serve well as the best exit point once her mission was complete.

  The door burst open with a clang, its iron echoing against a brick wall to reveal two loups. The guards were early.

  The soldiers rushed into the corridor. “Arrêtez!” From behind a visor helmet the taller one ordered Belle to freeze. He pointed his rifle but before he could press the trigger, she’d taken him out with a single shot. A bullet penetrated his throat, the only area exposed on his body. The loup uniforms had never been fully bulletproof, a fact she loved to exploit.

  As smoke wafted from her sleek, pink pistol, she pointed it at the second soldier, but he managed to kick the gun out of her hand. The next several seconds found the two engaged in heated hand-to-hand karate.

  Both combatants threw powerful blows. Belle howled in pain after delivering a mae geri front kick. The man’s armor plates were bricks. The loup countered with a barrage of punches. Belle dodged most of them, but took one. She stumbled back a few steps after being struck in the head but swiftly regained her senses. She didn’t reveal her recovery. Instead, she doubled over in pain, a feigned vulnerability on full display. Deception was a virtue.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” she begged through gritted teeth. The loup, chest puffed out, unsheathed a saber from his scabbard and stepped forward without caution.

  His end came quick.

  With feline reflexes, Belle reached down, drew a dagger from a hidden compartment in her black combat boots, and struck. The blade ripped into the man’s exposed throat—the area Belle had been eyeing all along. Blood sprayed onto her mask. Soon the man lay face down in a crimson pool, convulsing away the last remnants of life.

  Blinking away sweat, she recovered her pink Howa Type 40 without giving another thought to the dead loups. Bastards deserved it. All slaves of the bitch must die. With both gun and dagger pointed forward, she rushed out into another corridor. Better not get interrupted again.

  A nondescript steel door came into view a few meters away, spotlit by a recessed light. At its center was a standard Nippon Keibi Hosho electronic lock, an add-on wireless device that supplemented extra safety to entryways. Once it was unlocked, access to the lab would be gained. Belle had broken through a hundred of these in the past.

  She pulled out a pair of sleek, white shades from the knapsack slung about her torso and pressed a power button on their rim to boot up a built-in hard drive. Countless lines of code began to flow down the lenses, green characters dancing in glassy dark depths. With a few voice commands, Belle connected the shade’s two sensors, each placed on either side of the glasses, to her brain’s neurological synapses—a capability she’d designed and built herself. She was now in full control of the smart device through her mind.

  It’s go time, baby!

  A program file, MasterHack.exe, was unleashed. The co
de forced standalone networks to connect with the device it had been executed from. Ten seconds later, the lenses flashed a bright white and displayed “Access granted.”

  Fuck yeah.

  The program connected the smart shades to the lock and the two systems could now talk. The first hurdle had been crossed. Belle nearly thrust a fist up into the air in celebration but instead wiped off a bead of sweat from her brow, and pivoted her attention to the lock’s keypad. A password was still required. Her eyes narrowed. This was the tricky part. Fortunately, she had an entire arsenal of password spikes in her glasses’ archives.

  A knot tied itself in the stomach. Which one to use?

  Ten spikes were deployed. Belle bit her bottom lip. This part always sucked because it was out of her control. All up to the spikes. Countless combination sequences ran simultaneously as the programs attempted to determine the correct one. Flickering green digits against a dull black screen.

  “Come on! Hurry up,” Belle whispered through gritted teeth. Each second crawled by like a year. Or decade, as they began to pile up.

  A click echoed in her ears about a minute or sixty decades later. Her spike had unlocked the door. With a deep breath, she kicked it open and stormed in.

  An old man, the head chemist, sat at the end of a rectangular room, facing away. Rows of chemical vials and petri dishes lined the walls on either side, making the space suffocating-narrow. Fluorescents bathed the room in a burning white. A sweltering science cage.