by S A Asthana
He put a foot up on the bed, his brown boot resting next to Marie’s head. His left hand fiddled with the boot laces as if tying them was an arduous task, while the right one reached for the loot. He unclasped the choker, his long fingers performing a dexterous dance, all the while holding his breath. It came off easy! Hafiz still faced the opposite direction, unaware of the theft. He slipped the jewelry into the boot and his breath was released. All those years of stealing bread and picking pockets as a child made this moment a breeze. Sticky fingers—the unfortunate perk of being an orphan.
As he walked past Hafiz the behemoth cut his exit short with an outstretched arm. The limb felt like an immovable trunk. “I’ve got my eyes on you, mongrel,” the guard warned in a deep voice.
Oh, hell, did he see anything? Hafiz’s hand, curled into a fist, was the size of Bastien’s face. No wonder that slap had hurt so badly.
A snappy response came to mind, but Bastien bit his tongue. Not worth the trouble, at least not right now. Ducking under Hafiz’s arm, he moved past with his own hands curled into fists. It was time to kill Belle, whether he wanted to or not. One more dead body. Strange how taking a stand against killing innocents had forced him down the path of a murderous outlaw. How ironic. Five colleagues, three bounty hunters and now this woman he’d never met. How many more would have to die for him to find some peace?
“Forgive me, good father,” he said, “for I have to sin.”
CHAPTER 7: CRONE
A woman’s voice came through Crone’s earpiece. “Lieutenant General Smith here.”
“Haven’t heard from you in hours. Are we ready?” He walked with his chest out, hands clasped tight behind him, paler than chalk.
“General, I assure you I will have it all ready in an hour—”
Crone cut in with the nasal twang of a born and bred Sydneysider. “I want it done now! I will be there in twenty minutes—I need it ready to go. This is priority level one.”
“Yes, sir.”
The General walked the length of an empty, austere hallway, his footsteps echoing against white walls. The narrow door at the end was guarded by a soldier in red fatigues. The young man promptly saluted. “For the High Council.”
Crone ignored and passed by. He entered a bland room, one with elevator doors lining two of the four walls. A circular dirt patch at the center showcased a lean crepe myrtle firmly rooted in the soil. The tree’s canopy nearly touched the ceiling. Crone’s nose crinkled. The blatant attempt to beautify the room was an unnecessary reminder of what could never be on this hostile planet.
He stepped into the elevator and hit the tenth-floor button. Floors swept past the elevator’s window slowly. The Terraforming Floor was first. It was empty. Lights were off. Typical. Then came R&D. It too was vacant and dark. Not at all surprising. There was no money left for researching or developing anything. The Fetus Incubation Floor was next, a bright white room stretching for hundreds of feet with rows of small glass cylinders, each containing a pink liquid. Nurses in crisp white robes monitored floating fetuses. None of these caretakers smiled. Current times didn’t encourage laughter, after all. Who could laugh in the face of fetuses frozen and afloat in cylinders? Sad, but now wasn’t the time to doubt the High Council’s ways. They knew best, after all.
The elevator halted in an area filled with interconnected hallways, offices, briefing rooms, barracks, and a docking bay. No expense had been spared for the military floor. The boots that marched here were the Solar System’s peacekeepers, after all. At least Port Sydney had gotten its armed forces right.
A single passenger, self-driving shuttle pulled up. Crone boarded.
“Docking bay,” he commanded.
The shuttle sped down a wide hallway. Military men and women, all dressed in fitted, red coats and pants, stopped in their tracks to salute the superior officer. Crone didn’t acknowledge them. The opening at the hallway’s end commanded his attention. Port Sydney’s docking bay lay beyond. The burnt scent of metal and ion propulsion engines was strong, even from half a mile away, and it overwhelmed the facility’s typical cleaner-fluid stench. Crone’s heart fluttered with excitement just as it always did when approaching this part of the colony. It had been his favorite since training days. He was suddenly half his age.
Taking 1.V4s for spins over the red planet was a thrill that had never been surpassed. Piloting them, a daydream since his days of homework and headmasters and routine corporal punishment, had become a reality. Free as an eagle—Crone remembered it as if it were yesterday.
That freedom was nothing more than a memory. Like birds back on Earth.
A General never piloted because it was deemed too risky an activity for such a high officer. No matter how capable he was, or how much he enjoyed the activity. High-ranking officers showed restraint and hid such emotion. It wasn’t about enjoyment or liberty, but about being part of the bigger system. An instrument in the machine, an eagle with wings clipped, Crone felt all of his fifty years once more.
A squadron of men and women from Team Alpha, Mars’ top-tier unit, lined up in ten rows in the docking bay. Each soldier wore the compulsory red camouflage and cap with dark brown boots. High caliber rifles hung from their shoulders. The soldiers remained at attention with heels together and hands clasped tightly behind their backs. They were geared up for a daily drill. Crone nodded with satisfaction. The unit was his brainchild—it consisted of the military’s top performers and offered a path to fast promotions for those deserving. The adventures these soldiers had seen and the lives they’d saved were immeasurable. Without their intervention the Nipponese Civil War of 2191 would have destroyed the lunar colony. And the water shortages that plagued Alexandre Dubois, Marie’s father, had been brought within control by the Alphas a few years later.
Crone beamed with pride. His fingerprints were all over the military. He had sacrificed his personal freedom, but leading the Solar System’s supreme military force came with accomplishments worth noting and, more importantly, power. He had authority over a fleet of several thousand soldiers, human or otherwise. Well-deserved authority. And he had free reign over its technology. Designing and approving the mobile-fleet came with the territory.
A massive craft stood to the right, its long, white sleek body smooth at the edges—another one of Crone’s creations. The vehicle was one hundred feet tall and five hundred feet long. Broad at the back, if observed from a bird’s eye view, the 1.V10 was an angel of death. The cockpit windshield, angled and jet-black, looked as if it were eyes on a monster—a monster with teeth. The craft was outfitted with two heavy artillery cannon batteries, one along each side of the ship. The nose of the craft was equipped with a fourth-generation laser destroyer. On six different occasions the destroyer had taken out whole pirate fleets that were disrupting space traffic.
The General couldn’t help but crack a smile. The military and its toys had certainly come a long way since his taking the helm twenty-five years back. Probably why the fighting force still remained an admired institution within the colony, unlike some others. He was integral to its success on Mars. No one could have achieved what he had accomplished.
It was good to be General, as long as he went along with the High Council’s edicts and stayed on their good side.
A woman nearly half his age approached, clicked her heels and saluted in a crisp display. She looked like a six-foot golden candle. Crone disembarked. “At ease, Lieutenant General Smith.”
She loosened the muscles in her neck. “We are ready.”
“Good. I would like to see.” His tone was calm but firm.
Smith led the way to a narrow door and Crone trailed into a dimly-lit waiting room, one cooler than the bay’s fuel-scorched air. It was empty with a tiny surveillance camera fitted to the ceiling. The back wall was glass and overlooked a square hall several stories below and beyond the glass. A crowd cluttered at the bottom, surrounded by barren, bleached walls and illuminated by bright spotlights. Men and woman of all ages stood a
round, most glancing about for clues to their current circumstance. A few appeared angry. Hurried conversations played amongst them, but none of it was audible from his waiting room. The specialized glass filtered all voices.
Each individual wore a government-issued white robe—the required civilian dress for the past two years. It was formless and free flowing, perfect for hiding the human shape. One less distraction for the subjects. More focus on productivity, instead of sex with one another.
“Details please.” Crone never removed his gaze from the crowd. Some faces were wrinkled, others smooth and yet to see middle age.
Pulling out a tablet, Lieutenant General Smith swiped the screen with a slender forefinger. “A thousand of the lowest performers,” she said. “Average productivity at around 63 percent over the course of six months. Many average at least one sick day a month. The timeline for that trend is also six months.”
“How about innovation?” Crone studied a young man of no more than eighteen.
“None the High Council would deem worthy of an exception, General.”
Crone let out a long sigh. “Any redeeming stats? Anything?”
The Lieutenant General slowly shook her head.
Silence stretched for several breaths. Crone stared down into the hall, almost unaware of Smith.
“General?” She asked eventually, “Should we…?”
Her words trailed off.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Umm… what about that child?” Crone’s stare fixed on a girl. She held a teddy bear within her crossed arms.
Smith toggled between two screens.
“She’s nine. But diseased. Has nerve cancer.”
“Why not let her die a natural death, then?” Crone folded his arms.
“Our projections estimate she will live for another year.” Smith’s head was down. “The High Council will designate her as a drain on resources.”
She was right. No exceptions. For the High Council. They knew best, after all. The surveillance camera turned a centimeter, whizzing gently as it did so, its circular, black lens watching him, studying him. Crone took a deep breath.
“Do it.” His voice was colder than space.
Smith entered a command on her tablet and a blue gas hissed out of the hall’s vents. It spread about the space quickly like a phantasm. At first none of the citizens noticed. But then an old man pointed up. Others followed his finger. Eyes became wide. The gas was cloudy, its intent clear. Many cried at the realization. Some screamed in anger.
It played like a silent film.
At least, there won’t be any pain. They would feel sleepy, but no pain. The Ethrax gas was another one of Crone’s designs. A more humane way of killing a human. A ghastly accomplishment but an accomplishment nonetheless.
This hall was routinely used for capital punishment, so human death was not foreign to its walls. Crone was familiar with such proceedings. He’d overseen several uses of the gas before. The entire ordeal would be complete within five minutes. Remorse was never a part of these sessions, although today was different. For the High Council—no room for doubt.
One by one the civilians fell to the floor asleep, their protests interrupted abruptly. Some remained standing, fighting heavy eyelids. Fists punched the air as if the blue specter could be defeated in such manner. Eventually, those citizens as well succumbed to the deadly slumber.
The child was last. She stood terrified, her wide-eyes betraying her composure, as those around her slumped to the ground, like discarded sacks of garments. A yawn gave away her impending doom. The teddy bear trembled in her arms. The grip around it was loosening. It was apparent she knew what was happening, and she didn’t want to let go of the only comfort she had left. But death came for this child soon enough. The bear fell to the ground. She followed soon after, her head falling onto an old man’s stomach. Limbs didn’t quiver. Blood didn’t trail from her orifices. Nothing. She fell asleep, just as she always had every night before, but this time would be her last.
Everything became still. White robes and outstretched limbs littered the floor. Port Sydney’s first civilian euthanasia had concluded successfully, an unthinkable line crossed. Smith released a long breath. She must have been holding it the entire time. Was that a tear or a bead of sweat at the corner of her eye? The six-foot candle melting, perhaps. Crone saw that support was required.
“I’m glad I promoted you, Alice.” He toyed one of ten brass stars on his chest, ensuring his fingernails clinked loud against the metal. “You have courage, unlike your predecessor. He was a righteous buffoon. You, on the other hand, have a bright future. You do what is needed. You keep your place in line.”
Alice stared down at the nine gold stars running across her heavy bosom. Crone waited for some kind of an acknowledgment, a thank you or even a simple head nod, but none came. Instead, she turned and rushed away. Her need to leave the scene was obvious. Rookie. She’d adapt soon enough to the burdens of the job. Crone left the room as well, his back watched by the surveillance camera’s black lens.
CHAPTER 8: BELLE
Belle trekked through the West district, all the while keeping a dog-skin scarf wound tight around her nose and mouth. Beads of sweat festered on her brow, reminders of New Paris’ sauna-like conditions. But there was no removing the cloth. She’d be recognized without it. Some loups did frequent this district, after all, if only to harass the residents. And they knew her face well. A wanted poster plastered against the wall displayed a sketch of her face. This was the fifth one she’d seen just today. “Man, my nose ain’t that long, come on,” she griped.
Below the picture the warning read, “Bel: Wanted for murder, theft and general destruction. A reward of ¥100,000 if caught. Proceed with caution—outlaw armed and dangerous. Report to local authorities upon capture. Notable trait: blue or pink dyed hair, although a natural blonde.”
Dumb fucks. How hard is it to spell ‘Belle?’
Another poster was plastered not far down the wall, and that one read, “Bastien Lyons: Ex-lieutenant general in the Martian forces, now wanted for murder and desertion. Reward of ¥400,000 if caught. Notable trait: bright yellow irises.”
Belle whistled playfully at the sketch. Handsome. The Sydneysider appeared clean but rugged—typical Martian soldier type. That price tag, though. Stealin’ my thunder. How could he be worth four times as much as me? Must be capable of destroying whole colonies with that kinda bounty.
Peeling her attention from the poster, Belle stared at the chamber’s far end. A narrow, metal door was visible on the back wall. She removed a key from her black tunic as if out of habit and slinked forward, her eyes trained on the door’s padlock, her throat focused on holding down bile—no matter how many times she smelled this city’s stink, she could never get used to it. Today was especially horrid. A child, no more than six or seven, lay lifeless just ahead, his eyes half-closed as if still fighting death’s total darkness. The rotting corpse appeared untended for days. Belle stepped over the body with breath held. Maggot-infested holes did smell worse than they looked.
The city deserved better and that boy deserved better. Marie needs to die. But how can I get to the bitch? No answer yet after forty-nine missions.
Once at the destination, Belle slipped the key into the padlock. It clicked open with no trouble to reveal a small room—an unremarkable concrete space imbued in a musty smell. A wooden cabinet, the sole piece of furniture, stood by the back wall. Belle couldn’t recall where she’d acquired the item. Have I had this room for that long? Time flies when you’re destroying and disrupting.
Shutting the door behind her, she lit a lighter to keep total darkness at bay. Electricity was a luxury, meant only for Marie, of course. The almighty goddess couldn’t be bothered with candles and hand-fans like her subjects. No surprise the bratty kid grew up to be a bratty ruler.
Belle leaned against the cabinet and moved it aside with ease. The room’s singular purpose was evident—a passage to hidden realms. A tunnel, one carved into the
Earth with nothing more than dirt and stones for walls, presented itself. Familiar earthen aromas came forth and flirted with her nostrils, ridding them of the city’s stench. Mud and worms were always better than dead kids.
She ventured into the passage leading with her lighter, a dirt-strewn path illuminated ahead. Rodents scurried about and some spiders, too. They didn’t bother her. Seen much worse. Hell, eaten much worse. Plus, this was her favorite part of New Paris. She took off her shawl and draped it over her arm. Didn’t need it here. Where she was headed, she was a benevolent force. Not the wanted evildoer on those posters outside.
A wall packed with human skulls and soil came into view—a nightmare presenting itself within the lighter’s flame. Belle stood face to face with empty eye sockets just like hundreds of times before. The scene was macabre but harmless. Catacombes de Paris, her little secret. Her own kingdom.
Most Parisians, including the Queen, weren’t aware of the catacombs’ existence—thought they were destroyed in World War Three. The reality was close to five miles of tunnels remained. They had been sealed away from the sewers and the surface a long time back. By whom and for what, nobody knew. Forgotten passages. A faint memory of a world long gone. But to Belle, they were reality, her home. Ever since she’d stumbled upon them two years back, after returning from her exile, they’d become her sanctuary. But she hadn’t kept them a secret. No, that’s not who she was. The tunnels had been opened up as a refuge for marginalized Parisians.
Two women walked past, each dressed in loose-fitting black burqas enveloping them from head to toe. A shared candelabra lit their path. They spoke a foreign language—something ancient.