Sons of the Lion Page 8

  “Captain? It’s Colonel Luo,” Mulbah said as he activated his pinplants to return Samson’s call.

  * * *

  Bushrod Island, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth

  Zion walked calmly down the unnamed street, one of hundreds scattered between the random homes. The dirt roads were endemic of a larger problem in Monrovia, which was a lack of modern infrastructure. Many of the homes had plumbing at least, but not all. Running water during the summer season was hard to come by as the rivers which flowed through the region slowly dried up. It was even worse further inland, away from the city.

  In this part of the city, gangs were a huge problem. However, they weren’t gangs in the same sense as Zion had dealt with back in the United States. Here the gangs were usually little children running around, trying to steal stuff from people walking down the street with their arms full. They would approach, use little knives to slash open pockets, bags, or anything else they could get their hands on, then scatter before the victim could do anything. The little thieves would then take it back to their boss, who might feed them in exchange for the stolen goods. More often than not, though, since poverty was so high in the area, all the kids received were beatings for not bringing back anything worthwhile. Or they were robbed by bigger, stronger kids for what they were carrying.

  Zion had forgone his CASPer suit, though the men in First Squad were backing him up and were fully equipped. He had left Master Sergeant Nuhu back at Korps HQ with Second Squad to finish cleaning up the mess left by the looters. The Senior NCO had not been happy about it, but with First Squad in their CASPer suits and Zion not backing down one iota, the master sergeant had relented. Mostly.

  While he was not in his CASPer, Zion had donned body armor which had the ability to stop nearly every type of chemically-propelled small arms fire on Earth. It was a concession Zion made for the master sergeant, and Christian had not been about to let his company’s commanding officer walk around Monrovia without body armor of some sort. Reluctant at first, 100 feet from the secured grounds of Kakata Korps HQ he had come to see the wisdom behind the master sergeant’s demands.

  Zion had been sheltered from the roughest parts of the city when he and Mulbah had travelled between headquarters and the president’s residence. For the most part, he had spent the time looking into the data and the new tax laws the legislature had passed on the Korps after each successfully completed mercenary contract. It was only when they pulled into the parking lot that he would come out from within his pinplants and realize where they were. It had unintentionally prevented him from seeing the destitute and poverty-ridden streets.

  This was one of the many things which both baffled and concerned him. It was the law for every Human being on Earth to receive a Basic Living Allowance, courtesy of the taxes collected by the General Assembly from every mercenary company. This money should have been enough to lift nations like Liberia, Burkina-Faso, and even Sudan out of poverty. However, just as people have proven time and time again throughout history, a government cannot be trusted explicitly by its populace. Liberia, while not the worst offender, was still plenty guilty of adding on their own taxation, after the fact.

  Zion crossed a small “street” which was devoid of vehicle traffic and began to look for the house Sunshine had described. The young girl was adamant about not going with him, which told the merc far more than anything else she had said. She was afraid of this Major General Sparkles, and Sunshine struck him as a girl who did not fear much. Zion was not going to let any child live in fear, not as long as Mulbah and the Korps were trying to make Liberia better. It would be a slow process, but he was a patient man. Mostly.

  To either side of his current position, and making their way down streets just out of view, Zion could hear the CASPers of First Squad ensuring the lawyer-turned-merc wasn’t flanked by any of the Major General Sparkles’ “troops.” They were more for overwatch and intimidation than for any actual fighting, with First Squad’s Sergeant Abraham Kepah leading the way to Zion’s left. On the right was Sergeant Kepah’s assistant squad leader, Corporal Mbutu Williams. Both men led three CASPers each as backup, though Zion doubted very much they would need them. This was a show of force, something he’d wanted to do for a while now.

  He was scanning the dilapidated homes for the distinctive red front door covered in glitter, so Zion almost missed the wannabe-warlord’s little spotter sitting on the roof of the one abandoned houses. It was only when the boy, no more than six years old, accidentally knocked off a piece of the tin roofing did he notice. Zion looked at the boy, who had a slate in one hand and wore a fearful expression on his face. He wondered just how much trouble the child was going to get into for failing to stay hidden. The mercenary hoped to deal with the issue of Major General Sparkles before the boy was punished by the wannabe-warlord.

  “First Squad, be advised, I’ve got eyes on a spotter,” Zion murmured as he connected his pinplant to the rest of the squad. Hell, was that slate one of ours? he wondered as Sergeant Kepah helpfully tagged the location of the boy for all the others, which saved Zion the hassle of trying to maintain situational awareness while playing around with the program. “Williams, bring your team over this way; I think we’re close.”

  “Copy, sir,” Corporal Williams replied into his ear. Zion was glad he had grabbed the old-fashioned radio to communicate through his pinplants, otherwise the only thing he would have been able to do was listen. He had no idea how Mulbah was able to juggle both the incoming and outgoing calls with only his mind to track everything, though he strongly suspected the Korps’ CO had gone ahead and had his pinplant completely upgraded to the maximum somewhere along the line. Which suggested Mulbah had dealt with one of the mysterious Wrogul at some point, he thought. He shook his head. It was time to focus on the task at hand.

  The Mk 7s moved carefully between the run-down houses and joined Zion in the dirt street. Bushrod Island had turned into a veritable ghost town with the arrival of the Kakata Korps, as though everyone knew precisely why the mercenary company was there. It would explain the abandoned houses they’d seen along the way, though it might have more to do with their target than their arrival. Either way, this allowed the CASPers to move with a little more freedom than they would normally have in a busier section of the city.

  Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t the red glittery door of the house which told him he was at the right location, but the two young boys standing guard outside, each surprisingly well-armed with late model AK-15Ks. Why Zion wasn’t surprised at seeing the ancient rifle here in Libera, he could not say. It was one of those odd factoids in life, like dialing a phone or saying one was throwing down the gauntlet.

  The two boys, no older than twelve at the most, were attentive and held their weapons in a safe manner, Zion noticed with no small amount of surprise. This suggested whoever Major General Sparkles was, he made certain his young lackeys knew which end of the barrel the bullet came out of. Zion wasn’t sure if he was comforted by this newfound knowledge or not.

  “Hey, menh,” Zion said, jerking his head up in greeting. He knew it sounded weird to their ears, since it felt strange coming out of his mouth, but he needed to get them to at least listen to him before they tried to shoot him. His armor would probably stop the AK’s rounds, but he really didn’t feel like testing it. “Your bass in?”

  The two boys exchanged a look, and they shifted their feet slightly. Not a lot, but enough to tell Zion they were apprehensive about answering truthfully. Which meant the man he was looking for was there, Zion decided.

  “Bass, how do you know this is the right guy?” Corporal Williams asked him. “I don’t see a red sparkly door.”

  “Well, either way, we’re talking to a criminal today,” Zion said. “But I’m pretty sure this is the right guy.”

  “How?”

  “Ever seen boys with AKs and glitter eyeshadow before?” Zion asked rhetorically. “Yeah, this is the right spot.”

  “Ālek’awi izīhi yelemi,�
� one of the boys said as he stepped forward. Zion’s pinplant immediately translated it for him. “The bass isn’t here.”

  “Kezīhi t’ifa,” the other instructed as his finger drifted toward the trigger guard. The tone and edge to the boy’s words allowed Zion to figure out the meaning of the words as fast as his ’plants could translate them. “Get lost.”

  Zion took a step forward and said, “It’s very important that I talk with Major General Sparkles.”

  In a flash the rifles were pointed directly at his chest. Zion raised his hands and shook his head, pointing with a finger at the CASPers behind him. He then drew a finger across his throat. Even with the language barriers his warning of what would happen if they continued down this road was plain. “Don’t be stupid, kids. Go get your boss.”

  One boy lowered his AK and stepped inside the darkened doorway. The second kept his weapon pointed at Zion’s chest armor but, the merc was happy to see, the boy’s finger was no longer on the trigger. It appeared he might go another day without having to test the combat armor.

  “Ālek’awi wede wisit’i megibati inidemīchili negerewi,” a voice called out from within the darkness a minute later. The boy guarding the door lowered his rifle but still looked at Zion distrustfully. The merc captain looked back at Corporal Williams.

  “They’re letting me in. Keep an eye out for rooftop snipers. Have your team spread out and cover the entrance. Direct Sergeant Kepah’s team to form a perimeter around the place. Maintain comms with one another at all times. I’m relaying everything to you in case I need backup. Understand?”

  “Yes, bass, I got it,” Corporal Williams replied.

  “Here we go,” Zion whispered and stepped past the lone guard at the door.

  The pungent stench hit his senses immediately. It was the ripe smell of unwashed bodies and stale sweat, mixed with smoke from whatever drugs they were doing in the house; it reminded him of burnt Brillo pads. The other boy was waiting for him inside the darkened room. His AK was slung over his shoulder, but the barrel was pointing at the back of the kid’s head. Zion wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to upset the kid, so he remained silent on the matter. It was an issue which could potentially be solved afterward.

  Assuming the petty little major general didn’t try to shoot his way out of this, Zion groused to himself as he eyed the kid.

  “Come,” the boy said in heavily accented English, motioning with his hand. “Come.”

  Zion looked around the room as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. What he saw sickened him. Laying on soiled sofa cushions strewn about the floor were young boys and a few girls, all in various stages of undress. Fortunately, it didn’t look like anything else was going on besides a decided lack of clothing options, but he was able to quickly discern from the odd, distant look in the eyes of the kids that they were high on something. Probably the latest psychotropic, but there was a litany of drugs to choose from, all of which were easily accessible within Monrovia and on Bushrod Island in particular. Whatever could be smoked and easily attained, Zion silently bet as he looked around and frowned. Opium, perhaps.

  A lot of blame for this could be laid at the feet of the corrupt governments which had ruled Liberia for the past hundred years. Exports and imports were the primary reason the Liberian economy had managed to stay afloat from its founding all the way into the 21st century. With the arrival of the Galactic Union and the technology it offered, almost everything exported from Liberia had dropped in value. Meanwhile, the cost of stuff the country imported shot up exponentially, creating a massive trading deficit from which the country had yet to recover. This in turn led to massive poverty as business in Freeport dropped to almost nothing.

  Mulbah’s goal, Zion recalled as he tore his eyes away from the kids on the floor, had been to remedy this by creating employment opportunities for citizens of Monrovia working for the Korps. The biggest problem had been the natural corruption which ran rampant through the region. Even Antonious, a positive idealist if Zion had ever met one, knew Mulbah’s goals would be damn near impossible until something changed within the mindset of their government.

  As he moved into a smaller room off the main area, Zion took one final glance at the children which Liberia had failed in the past and wondered: was the Korps enough to change the future?

  “Big merc!” came a loud, boisterous voice as soon as Zion stepped inside the room. It was brighter here due to a butane lamp hanging from the ceiling and another on a filing cabinet in the corner. Instead of a desk, a large chair dominated much of the room. It was gilded with gold paint and designed to look like a throne of some sort. Along the wall on either side of the chair were rows of neatly organized AK-15Ks, identical to the ones the boys guarding the front door carried. There were ammo boxes piled up haphazardly next to the filing cabinet and magazines wrapped together with oversized rubber bands on top of them.

  Seated on his throne, barefoot but dressed in pleather pants and wearing a horrible leopard-print suit vest, was Major General Sparkles. There was no mistaking his braided hair and purple twists coated with dye and glitter, or the copious amount of glossy eye shadow, worn in exactly the same manner as the boys outside. Around his neck were three gold chains, though they looked pretty thin to Zion; he’d seen bigger on the lowest hustlers in Philly. This guy’s a fraud, Zion thought with disgust. He’d last a day, maybe, back home.

  “Big merc man, hello,” Major General Sparkles said and smiled wide. His lower teeth were capped in gold, but his uppers were a strange mishmash of colors, almost like candy had been glued to them. No, not candy, Zion realized, struggling to hold in his laugh. Are those plastic toy gems for kids? No, no way.

  “Do I call you ‘major general,’ or ‘General Sparkles?’” Zion asked. Two more guards filed into the room behind him, making the tiny, crowded room feel even smaller. There were too many unwashed bodies in the room. The smell of burned metal pads and smoke made his eyes water.

  “You? You can call me bass, big merc man,” General Sparkles’ grin didn’t budge. Zion narrowed his eyes as he saw something in the self-proclaimed general’s face which set his teeth on edge. He quickly sent two pings to the troops outside via his pinplant, warning them to be ready.

  “I already have a boss,” Zion said in a mild tone.

  “He not the bass of my island, though,” General Sparkles insisted. “Here, I’m bass.”

  “If you say so,” Zion muttered. If the drug lord wanted to verbally spar with him, it would be his funeral. While a contract lawyer by training, he still had the chops to run verbal circles around any drugged-out man with candy for teeth. Zion continued, louder this time, “Mister Sparkles, I caught some children stealing from the warehouses at the Korps headquarters. We know they work for you. We want to know why you would steal from fellow Liberians? Why you would risk the wrath of the Mercenary Guild and the Kakata Korps to steal food? We would give it to you if you asked.”

  “I don’t ask for nothing,” the warlord spat as he slammed a fist onto the arm of his chair. The cheap material flaked off the armrest, revealing cheap plywood beneath the thin, gold paint. “I am bass here. I will take what I want.”

  “Yeah, that needs to stop,” Zion told him. General Sparkles’ eyes narrowed dangerously. Zion ignored the look and continued. “If it doesn’t stop, we—meaning the Kakata Korps—will have to take drastic action. You know what that means, right?”

  “You tell me what to do, on my island?”

  “Son, I’m going to give it to you straight,” Zion said as he laid on his best law school accent. Not for the first time did he appreciate the slight southern accent he had picked up while attending Tulane University. “You’re on Kakata Korps’ turf now. The only reason you’re still alive is because we’ve been off-world fighting aliens, killing them, and then reaping bountiful rewards for doing it. I, personally, have killed Besquith, Goka, some lizard alien that we still haven’t identified, Zuparti, and even an Oogar. Once. You would ste
al from us? From the Korps? Boy, are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  Major General Sparkles fairly leapt from his gilded throne, snarling. His fake plastic gemstones glittered in the light and the gold grill adorning his bottom teeth almost fell out. Spittle flew as he yelled at Zion.

  “You think you’re big? You think you’re bad?” General Sparkled stalked over to his wall and grabbed one of the AK-15Ks with one hand and one of the curved magazines with the other and then slammed it into place. He pulled the bolt back to chamber a round and pointed it at Zion’s chest. “I show you who’s in charge. I am the bass!”

  “Corporal Williams, I sure as hell hope you can hear all of this,” Zion said as he stood calmly in the center of the room. He took a deep breath and tried not to cough from the rank stench which flooded his mouth and lungs. “Blow it.”

  “Blow what?” General Sparkles questioned loudly in anger and confusion.

  The wall to Zion’s left suddenly exploded inward as Corporal Williams burst through the wall, his MAC up and ready. Dust, combined with the pre-existing smoke, obscured everyone’s vision, save the CASPer driver. The gas lantern which had been hanging from the ceiling fell to the ground, dangerously close to the ammo pile. Zion jumped back and pressed himself against the interior wall as the roof above the CASPer began to buckle and collapse.

  “Baku!” General Sparkles screamed as he turned his gun toward the mech suit and opened fire. The fully automatic weapon poured an inordinate about of ammunition into the CASPer at near-point-blank range, but not a single shot from the thirty-round magazine did anything more than scratch the paint.

  It did, however, cause ricochets to bounce wildly around the room. Zion swore and tried to duck as one of the stray rounds smacked into the dirt floor next to his foot. Another struck the wall where his head had been moments before, and a third glanced off his chest armor. He swore in surprise at the close call.