The Vagabonds (The Code of War Book 4) Page 18

  “No.”

  Saladin smiled, “It’s an ancient Arabic board game, very much like an old form of chess. Played by kings of old, it’s a very simple game. You have the shah, or King, just as you do in chess. That king is supported by his Fers or counselor. Like the Queen in chess, these Fers move across the board fighting the battles of their Shah.”

  “Get to the point, Saladin.”

  Ignoring the outburst, the Sand Scorpion continued his lesson, “The Fers, are the strongest pieces in the game, not the Shah. They move any way they wish, taking pieces as they will. The game ends when the Shah is taken, but it’s the Fers that can do the greatest damage. A good player can use these councilors to control the ebb and tide of battle.”

  Falco snorted. “So you’re saying the counselors are nothing if the King falls. The battle would be over and they will have failed.”

  “Correct. It’s important then to choose the right King to council.”

  Falco found some meaning in that statement. “Titus has…potential. I know he has it in him to rule this Brotherhood and forge a place in history for the Olympus PMC. I’ve looked after him his whole life. I love him like—”

  “—like he’s your own son. I noticed.” Saladin said, swirling his coffee in its cup before taking a sip, “One must not be blinded by what’s right in front of him.”

  “What do you mean?” Falco asked.

  “Petulance and impatience are rarely the traits of a leader. Tiberius will soon make his play for control of Olympus. The man has the intellect and tenacity for the job. When the time comes to choose which Shah you shall act as Fer to, which shall you chose: logic or emotion?”

  Falco didn’t answer. They sat quietly for a time, knowing soon they would have to face another difficult day.

  * * *

  DOWN IN the courtyard of Corvo Tower, the surviving sixty members of Vorena’s Secutor elite soldiers had gathered in parade formation. They’d shed their glistening displacement suits and helmets and now wore simple jumpsuits. The women were all of various races and nationalities. Their bodies were athletic and perfectly toned, their faces emotionless.

  They all knew what failure meant.

  Titus stood off to the side, witnessing what would transpire in a silent fury. The failure of last night’s raid, coupled with the combined loss of Centurions and Secutors had compounded to raise Titus’s temper to the boiling point. Now he would be forced to deal face to face with Damien Sledge, with the paranoid billionaire more worried than ever about security breaches and Vagabond attacks.

  The morning was already turning out to be one giant migraine.

  But, there was one small bit of good news…

  Joe Braddock is here in Venezuela.

  Titus felt a purr of strength in his loins at the mere thought of crushing that man’s skull with his bare fists. Everything for the time being felt secondary to that one simple desire. Titus would weather the storm for now, but soon his vengeance would be upon that loathsome little shit. He would make Braddock’s last moments on Earth truly memorable.

  But first, to the business at hand.

  Vorena, dressed in a similar jumpsuit to the Secutors, stood in the early morning light like a goddess from heaven. Or a succubus from hell, Titus hadn’t made his mind up yet which was more suited to the Olympus Siren. Either way, she was transfixing to the Secondus, who found himself watching her closer and closer as she dispensed Olympus discipline to her failed Secutors.

  “Last night was the greatest failure I have ever known in my Unit. The Secutors are to be the most elite in all of the Olympus Private Military, yet you handled the mission into Petare like common American infantry.”

  Beside Vorena stood her two companions, Fausta and Claudia. The Sirens listened intently to their leader’s rebuke. Titus noticed Claudia clutched several black velvet bags in her hands. He wondered what they were for.

  “We lost twenty of our number last night,” Vorena said, eyeing her troop, “Twenty sisters in war. Twenty of our very blood lie crushed under that building in this pathetic cesspool of a country!” She let the weight of her words sit with her women before continuing, “Who speaks for the team in this matter?”

  One of the women moved forward, a strong-jawed brunette who looked more than a match for any man Titus had known. She stared straight ahead as she spoke.

  “I do, my Mistress.”

  Vorena nodded, “Optio Cassia. Speak, if you will.”

  “My Mistress, we were unprepared for the assault awaiting us. Our intelligence inferred we would be dealing with simple cartel soldiers. Instead, we faced heavy resistance from a well-trained force, as well as a power-armored soldier. The target had also set a timed explosive that we were unable to disable. I commanded the Unit to pull back before all was lost.”

  Vorena’s face didn’t change through the entire explanation. “You acted with logic, Optio. I commend you. Step back.”

  Optio Cassia did as she was asked, rejoining her sisters in the ranks.

  “There is, however, no excuse for failure,” Vorena said, her voice carrying across the yard, “As elite members of the Sirens, we hold ourselves at a higher example than other lesser ranks in Olympus. Last night’s failure proves the discipline within my unit is lax. It must be hardened like steel. To that end, I am ordering something that has not been ordered for a half century within our Brotherhood…decimation!”

  Titus saw several of the women visibly twitch at the mention of the ancient, dreaded form of Roman punishment. While he had no pity for those that failed Olympus, decimation was not something he would wish on his worst enemy.

  Well…maybe my worst enemy.

  The diminutive Claudia moved to stand beside Vorena, clutching the silk bags. Fausta went about the ranks, silently organizing them into groups of ten. The women of the Secutors did as they were ordered, with no complaints. When the groups were formed, the bald Siren stepped back.

  Gesturing to the bags held in Claudia’s hands, Vorena said, “As it was my command that failed you last night, I shall stand beside you in this order.”

  Titus jolted where he stood. What was she doing?

  Claudia handed the bags to Fausta. The bald headed Siren moved between the ranks, handing the bags to each of the six groups of ten. The bags were then passed around between them. Each Secutor reached in and pulled out a token—a simple brass coin. The Secutors were to hold them in their hands and not look at them until all had been handed out. Titus noticed several Centurions, clad in their heavy armor, moving between the women now. They would be used only if someone tried to escape or back out.

  After the last female Secutor had drawn a token, Fausta returned to Vorena’s side. The blonde Siren put her hand into the bag and drew forth her own coin.

  “Now, as Olympia tradition before us dictates, let those whose fates be sealed, look upon their hand!”

  The women opened their palms. Any who held a dull brass coin was spared the punishment. Of the ten coins in each bag, one was made of ancient obsidian glass, designed to be indistinguishable from the other tokens.

  The women who drew the obsidian coins were condemned to death.

  Titus watched as Vorena held up her own token.

  Brass.

  He let out a sigh of relief.

  Vorena spoke to the ranks of her Secutors, “Those condemned shall be stricken from our records and memories. Let the judgment be carried out!”

  The Secutors who drew the obsidian were quickly removed from the ranks and surrounded by the survivors. Normal soldiers would probably plead for their lives, but Titus was amazed at the discipline of these women. They said nothing, only complied.

  Then, in a scene Titus would never forget as long as he lived, the nine members each beat to death the condemned soldier of their rank.

  Using bare hands and feet, the women struck, bludgeoned and ruthlessly beat into the grass of the courtyard their own sisters of war. The condemned fell quickly, crushed beneath the brutal attac
k of their former comrades.

  Vorena herself, forced by discipline, partook in the act—savagely kicking Optio Cassia so hard, her head split apart.

  When the bloody act was over, the remaining fifty-four Secutor women fell back into rank, their faces as emotionless as ever. Vorena took her place at the head of her soldiers.

  “Justice is done, the lesson well learned. Dismissed!”

  The women filed out of the courtyard in complete silence, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. They moved back inside the Olympus skyscraper, where they would rearm and prepare for the next mission, whatever it may be. Titus walked up to Vorena, who was being tended by her two closest Sirens. Her face and suit were speckled with blood. She accepted a towel from Fausta, using it to clean herself.

  “That was…extraordinary,” Titus said as he joined the Sirens. “They…didn’t even speak! Not even to cry out or plead.”

  “Of course not,” Vorena said simply, tossing the towel back to Fausta.

  “How? Is it something to do with the Stream?”

  “No,” Vorena said, turning to walk back toward the entrance to Corvo Tower. Titus followed, eagerly listening to her explanation. “Fausta here trained these women personally. The Secutors have no need for something as trivial as an A.I. to help guide them in combat. They can read each other like open books.”

  Titus adjusted his mask as they walked, “Such skill…why decimation? How can you afford to lose even one of these women?”

  “Failure within the Secutors must be punished with absolute ruthlessness.” Vorena explained this to him as they entered the tower foyer. “To be a Secutor is an honor few ever see. To become one, each of these women has killed that which they loved most. Whether it be a son, daughter, husband, lover…they follow the old Code of the Brotherhood, just as we Tribunes do. Therefore, they must be made subject to the same punishments.”

  “But decimation hasn’t been used for a generation,” Titus said.

  “Times change. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  As they walked across the glistening marble floor of the Olympus skyscraper, Titus saw Falco exit the elevator on the far side of the foyer and march toward them.

  There was one last question Titus had to ask the amazing woman before he forgot.

  “Why did you join them in decimation? What was to gain except death?”

  “A commander must be ready to die with their soldiers,” Vorena replied, “Why should we expect them to do the same for us?”

  Titus scoffed at the answer. “We command, they follow. It isn’t our way to die like they do.”

  Vorena stopped and turned to look in Titus’s eyes, almost hidden behind his mask. “If you think that way, you may not be Secondus for long.”

  Despite what he felt for this woman, anger bit hard at Titus’s gut. He opened his mouth to retort but fell silent as Falco approached them.

  The Tribune gave a quick salute, “My Secondus, I’m afraid Damien Sledge has requested your presence immediately.”

  Behind his mask, Titus rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What does that paranoid lunatic want now? He has our deal, what more could he ask?”

  Falco’s wizened face remained impassive. “Perhaps he is anxious after the events of last night. In any case, he seems quite adamant that you meet with him at your earliest convenience.”

  “Sons of death,” Titus cursed, “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

  “I’d like to meet this Mister Sledge,” Vorena declared, “I shall be going with you, my Secondus.”

  The request surprised both Titus and Falco. The young Secondus glanced at the older veteran. Falco’s face betrayed his inward distrust of the beautiful Siren.

  Titus decided to go with his own instincts.

  “All right. Falco, ready a transport. It’s time I set our Mister Sledge straight in his role with our company.”

  * * *

  Puerto Cabello, Carabobo Province, Venezuela, October 5th

  IT WAS a quick ten-minute flight via Hyperion to reach the newly converted Sledge Dynamics machine factory, nestled into the woodland hills near the industrial region of Puerto Cabello. The simple, low-key complex was built from a long-abandoned steel factory constructed back in the Seventies. Sledge had merely modernized it to resemble a simple, working machine-part factory.

  Simple on the upper floor, perhaps.

  The lower floors, however, were another question.

  Using his own specially selected crews of non-indigenous personnel, Sledge had hollowed out the lower recesses of the facility and built a secret manufacturing chamber. With the land he owned surrounding Puerto Cabello, the billionaire industrialist built an airstrip to accommodate the difficult shipping process of the parts required to build his pet project—a massive drone manufacturing plant.

  Illegal in the worst way, Sledge had masterminded many of the logistical plans himself.

  As the Hyperion craft set down on the helicopter pad off to the side of the factory, Titus had to commend Sledge on one hell of an operation. To the naked eye, the man was providing work for Venezuelans, at premium wages. But unknown to the government, all of the workers were specially selected, trained and fronted by Sledge personally.

  Stepping off the VTOL aircraft, Titus and Vorena, flanked by Fausta and Claudia, marched across the work yard toward the giant factory. Titus held up a hand, trying to block the late-morning sun, already high in the sky. He could make out the Sledge Dynamics logo emblazoned across the complex in all its red and yellow brilliance.

  Two people came to meet them as they approached—a young woman dressed in an expensively severe blouse and skirt. A computer tablet was tucked under her arm and her dark hair was held high in a bun. She identified herself as Jerrica Peters, Mister Sledge’s personal assistant.

  The other was an older man, probably late forties, who smelled of business meetings and stale coffee. He said his name was Travis Rafelson, Financial Advisor for Sledge Dynamics and its subsidiary, Sledge Aeronautics.

  After introductions were made, the corporate duo guided Titus’s retinue into the facility.

  The main complex—an enormous bay area that was the size of a football field—was empty. Machinery was left unused all over, like corpses forgotten in an industrial war.

  “Where are the workers?” Vorena asked.

  Jerrica Peters answered, “Home for the week. A gracious holiday from Mister Sledge.”

  “Very kind of him,” Titus said.

  “Mister Sledge wishes this deal to be finalized as soon as possible,” Rafelson said. Titus had taken an instant dislike to the man. The businessman would cast occasional glances at the mask the Secondus wore, a look of thinly veiled disgust on his face.

  Titus told himself to stay calm. He had to be on his best behavior in here.

  They moved through the factory until they reached the back, where a huge industrial mining elevator—large enough to fit an Abrams Tank—waited to take them below. After a two minute trip, Titus and his group were brought into a colossal hollowed out chamber. The Secondus felt his jaw go slack at the spectacular sight in front of him.

  The hollow chamber seemed to extend for as far as he could see. Raised steel catwalks stretched across the facility, where armed guards patrolled.

  And in rows upon rows on each side of the chamber was Sledge’s drone army.

  Steel machines of advanced military hardware were wedged together as technicians busied themselves around the chamber, performing various repairs and retrofits. Titus saw several O-111 Cronos tiltrotor drone gunships. Aerodynamically designed, they were propelled by four swiveling jet engines built into the stubby wings at the mid and hind sections of the craft, making the machine a formidable aerial attacker.

  Titus also saw four dozen or so upgraded Cerberus bipedal drones, as well as multiple Saturnine urban pacification hover bots, well-armed with swivel mounted cannons and short-range missiles.
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  It was a candyland of weaponry. Titus felt his mouth water at the sight of so much power.

  “Please follow me,” Ms. Peters said as she guided the group up onto one of the raised catwalks leading across the chamber.

  “Incredible,” Vorena said, looking out at the sea of machinery. “Such power. What do you imagine the Imperator will do with such an army?”

  “I don’t imagine he will do much with it,” Titus replied, remembering his father’s weakened state. Once I am proclaimed the true and final heir, I will have this army at my beck and call.

  As they walked across the catwalk, boots clanking loudly against the steel grating, Titus saw a man leaning on the guardrail directly ahead of them. He stared out over the army, wringing his hands as if they were dirty and he was attempting to clean them with no water. As the man looked over at his new guests, Titus could see his face was gaunt, far gaunter than he remembered. The man’s eyes never stayed in one place for long, giving the sense of an internal manic energy.

  This was Damien Sledge.

  CEO and majority shareholder of Sledge Dynamics, the man was worth nearly ten billion dollars. One of the world’s foremost leaders in artificial intelligence and machine engineering, Sledge was a one-man empire. Having moved much of his primary industry to Venezuela over the past five years, he had taken advantage of the welcome socialist atmosphere the newly elected president had afforded him after the death of Chávez. Since then, he’d quickly become the leading supplier of drone technology to corporations around South America.

  That same drone tech had been a boon for Olympus these past few years.

  His Sledge Aeronautics aerospace manufacturing company had provided Olympus with satellite technology which allowed the transmission of the Stream to Centurion forces around the globe. Sledge had provided much of the armaments Olympus now relied on, such as the repeating pulse cannons used by the Hyperion jets.

  In his after hours, Sledge had refined the job of illegal arms manufacturer to an art form.

  The man was indispensable to the Olympus PMC.