Sacremon (Harmony War Series Book 1) (5 page)

           
Mark and Tyler agreed, getting stronger was always useful.

           
Then selection started, they did physical training, using muscles they didn’t know they had. Sleep was a luxury they weren’t afforded as they ran around the compound in their masks, doing push ups in the rust colored dust.

           
They learned how to rest while doing push ups, to breathe through their nose so they didn’t get dust in their mouths. Limits were just a figment of their imagination.

           
Anything their trainers told them to do, they did as fast as possible. Those that gave up were dismissed to other groups; the crew needed people to feed them, to look after their gear. Not everyone was meant to be the crew’s warriors.

           
Tyler and Mark never gave up, even when they were the youngest by three years except for Dimi. Dimi had been pulled from a sex shop in a raid when Richter was expanding his territory. She was a year older than them but she was determined. In those days she rarely talked to anyone.

           
Hand to hand was a series of moves done until they were mere reactions. Melee and edged weapons became an extension of themselves. Mark and Tyler took the blades Quentin had given them and made their under-arm sheaths.

           
Mark excelled with hand to hand, he could put down most people, even a few of the trainers.

           
Tyler was the best shot in the crew. Final training came around and they moved out of the compound to a real-life scenario.

           
They attacked a club run by EVR, a gang within Westerly Three Complex.

           
Mark looked away from Dimi, not seeing the wall, but that night.

           
He had moved in through the back, hoping to funnel them out onto the street, right into Tyler and four other ‘recruits’.

           
People looked at them coming in, they might be kids, but they had guns. As Mark and recruits came in through the back, people dropped to the floor, fleeing as the recruits moved past.

           
Aza a larger boy, about fifteen who loved to make up grand tales about his girlfriends and how he was really from mega-city kept point in front of Mark.

           
Someone must have alerted the people inside.

           
Aza opened the door, adrenaline taking over as he failed to follow their training.

           
Mark was about to say something as Aza’s head disappeared, a shotgun had taken him out from a few feet away.

           
Gore and what had been Aza splattered over Mark. He didn’t hesitate, shooting the shotgunner, throwing them back as he moved into the club. People were screaming and running, guns fired, loud cracks and whizzes past Mark’s head. He continued to fire, trying to get the EVR’s heads down as he pushed into the room.

           
There was a bar to his left. The center of the club had two islands on either side, a stage connected to the left island. Girls and guys were jumping from it out the front door. Seats and tables were everywhere, turning into cluttered obstacles as people tried to run and ended up falling over.

           
An odd low pink light filled the smoky room.

           
Flashes came from all across the room, centered on the door.

           
There was no amazing head shots or fancy shooting, he sprayed in the direction of the muzzle flashes, knowing that he was more likely to hit the people running away than the EVR’s.

           
Fuck if it didn’t make them put their heads down in a hurry,
Mark thought grimly.

           
Mark heard the guns outside, Tyler and his lot were taking down the EVR’s running away.

           
Mark’s gun clicked empty, he dove for cover, his hands ripping the magazine out and slamming another in.

           
Three of his Westerly brothers and sisters were also in the room, putting fire into the EVR’s positions.

           
Two of them had died at the doorway.

           
Mark felt for his gear pulling out a sphere, he twisted the top, feeling a click just like the training prop.

           
“Grenade!” Mark yelled throwing the thing into the largest group of muzzle flashes.

           
The Westerly crew ducked, the grenade went off, louder than any of the simulations, the Westerly crew rose, their guns up and looking for threats.

           
“Moving up!” Mark said, moving around the bar to the nearest cluster of tables and chairs. People cried out on the floor, wounded, scared, dying and dead.

           
All Mark could smell was the smoke and the tang of spent rounds. Mark tasted fear, hell he felt it, the acidic bile in the back of his throat, the way it felt like his body was shaking but was rock steady.

           
“Head in the game,” Mark said to himself, hearing his brothers and sisters firing behind him. He shouldered his gun and rose over the cover, sending controlled bursts at the shooters. Few were actually aiming their shots, hitting the ceiling or the walls.

           
Amateurs,
Mark snorted, Dimi moved against him.

           
He remembered the fire fight, how he’d seen people he’d become closer to in four months than anyone other than Tyler, cut down. One moment they were there and fighting, the next they were just another screaming casualty or soundless corpse.

           
All it took was one unlucky round, they weren’t invincible, but Mark knew they were better trained.

           
They won the day. The club had run red with blood and most of the pink lighting was gone, but they won.

           
That day Mark became a warrior, they went back to the compound, subdued as they carried their dead in a cart.

           
All of the recruits sat in the cafeteria, tired and worn out in a way that training couldn’t hope to achieve.

           
Richter came in, everyone called him ‘Boss’ his call sign, the mark that he had become a Westerly Three Complex warrior. He looked at them all, they were sweaty, covered in dust, and many had injuries, with sand encrusted blood on their clothes and boots.

           
They started to rise to attention.

           
“No need for that Westerlies,” Richter said, waving us back down.

           
He pulled out a stack of Westerly Three Complex patches.

           
“You came to us looking for a home, looking to become warriors. Today you have become those warriors. A number of your recruit brothers and sisters didn’t make it. Never forget them or the lessons their lives provided you,” Richter looked around, letting his words sink in.

           
“Today I welcome you to our warrior clan, a patch to show your status and a call sign that names you as a warrior,” Richter moved down the tables, giving us patches and telling us our call signs.

           
“Tyler, your call sign is SWAS,” Richter said.

           
“SWAS?” Tyler asked, confused.

           
“Serviced with A Smile, every time you hit a target on the range you smiled a little,” Richter said by explanation he turned to me.

           
“Mark, yours was a hard one, but I arrived at Diablo, I’m from what was called Central America before unification. It means devil in Spanish. You fight like the devil possessed and like to get in and personal with your targets. You killed more people in the club than any other and continued on even as your friends were cut down, well done,” Richter said.

           
“Thanks boss,” Mark said, looking at the simple black and white patch in his hand.

           
“Diablo,” Mark said into the night air, Dimi moved again, her naked leg moving over Mark’s midsection.

           
Well I’m not going to sleep anytime soon,
Mark thought.

           
In the crews you lived without regrets and knowing you’re probably going to die sooner rather than later. Mark had a week until he left for the Citadel to join the EMF. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy Dimi’s company for probably a long while.

           
He started kissing her, his hands wandering under the thin sheets.

           
“You’re a horny bastard Mark Victor,” a sleepy voice sighed, her breath catching as her legs moved over Mark more.

           
“I don’t hear any complaints,” Mark teased.

           
“Cause I’m a horny gal,” she replied, moving so she was on top of Mark, letting her naked breasts slide over his muscled chest.

           
Mark grabbed her hair, pulling her lips to his own, they kissed hungrily as Dimi pushed Mark into her.

           
Mark didn’t get much sleep, but he was a damned happy man in the morning. He and Dimi had been bed companions a number of times and they both knew tricks to use on the other.

Chapter 2

           
Tower

           
Earth, Sol system

           
6/3136

Nivad was the defacto head of Earth’s government, if there even was such a thing anymore. There was still a president, a figurehead that was bought by bids from all of the companies. When you have the wealth to own planets, politics becomes an interesting hobby.

No one would say the same thing about Nivad. He ran what he called the ministry of information. He knew everyone’s secrets and where all the bodies were buried. Through the ministry of information, he
advised
Earth’s Military Forces, which simply put meant he told them what to do.

When someone had a problem they went to Nivad. Say a company was doing inside trading, bring it to Nivad and he would find out. If you were right he’d sort it out, if they weren’t you’d be footing his bills.

He was the only man capable of telling companies what to do and being a negotiator between them. You had a problem you went to Nivad.

You made a problem, the last thing you wanted to see was Nivad’s people.

So say if your colonists wanted to turn your company-owned planet into a government run planet, then you went to Nivad.

When CEO’s representing the Sacremon partnership between Salafil foods, Credari builders and Montasiri growers came to Nivad with this he’d carefully looked to their reports on the matter.

The CEO’s had tried to reason with those that wanted to turn Sacremon into a government run planet instead of a company run one.

They worked to try and find a compromise that wouldn’t affect their bottom line too much. Yet the rebellion had grown, people didn’t want to live under companies on Sacremon.

They were actively working to hinder Sacremons’ progress.

Some people were already heading to the cryo-pod filled bunkers under the towers that made up every colony city. None of the rebels tried to stop them, if they did then when the troopers finally arrived they’d not only kill them, but anyone that they could find linked to them.

It had happened twice and was broadcast across Earth and Her Colonies. No one tried to stop people from entering the cryo-pod bunkers anymore.

Work ratios were declining and the CEO’s didn’t think that they could deal with the rebels anymore. They came to Nivad with a contract that would ‘hire’ the EMF.

Nivad looked at the projections, Dalia his second had gone through and made sure that the numbers were realistic.

Sacremon supplied food across the EHC. Every planet was useful to the EHC but not all of them could make food in numbers that the workforce could live off of.

Nivad continued to go through the information on his desk, pressing a button on it absently.

It only took a few moments until the head of the EMF answered.

“Sir?” The man asked, as Nivad flipped through pages.

“Do we have any Carriers capable of taking down a small rebellion, might be good to bloody a new Carrier,” Nivad said, only half-paying attention to the man’s response.

“Yes sir, the carrier Reclaimer is just about to take on personnel for training purposes, they’ve been in limbo for fifteen years,” the head of the EMF said.

‘In limbo’ meant all of the troopers and non-essential personnel for keeping the ship in working order had been in cryo, not earning time on their forty-year contract.

If the troopers were up and walking around then Nivad was taking a loss, well not him personally, but he could funnel the money taken from the minimal taxes on companies into other pursuits. Only waking them when he needed to train them, or give them leave after a battle was better for the bottom line and kept them effective.