Enlightenment Enterprises: The Liberty Exodus: Enlightenment Enterprises, #1

By R D Blakely

Earth descends into the Third World War and the advanced weapons of the late twenty-first century dispense destruction upon the nations of mankind. Within the first minutes of conflict, Gabriel Huntingfield, a captain in the United States Navy, experiences the comprehensive ineptitude of his superiors and decides to join the noble mission of a man who is both a genius shipwright and director of a secretive organization, a company that had secretly created the most powerful weapon humanity has ever seen—more destructive than nuclear bombs. One immensely powerful man, Subutai—the supreme leader of the armies of the People's Imperium of China—learns of the secretly made weapon through the covert actions of one of his stealthy agents, and as his forces assail the American coast, he rushes to capture the weapon, to harness its power in his quest to remake humanity in his inhuman image.

 

Gabriel will have his skills of command tested and his loyalties challenged after uncovering a deep-rooted corruption within his nation's government. Ultimately, in his quest to save as many of his fellow Americans as possible, he will look beyond the rapidly failing civilizations of Earth and discover an ancient mystery, a curse that has been hidden within ancient texts and has plagued humanity since the beginning.

 

Nations will fall, leaders will die, but humanity will continue.

 

Approximately 160,000 Words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R D Blakely
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223883746

R D Blakely

Sheltered from the scorching Arizonan sun in Prescott, Ryan spends his days hunched over a keyboard, constantly practicing his art as he hunts for ultimate knowledge. His two furry companions, French Bulldogs named Winston and Wallace, often follow him out to the vegetable garden whenever the dull glow of a computer screen becomes too irksome.

Book preview

One

Consequences

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One Hour Before World War III

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Greetings my followers! Bella said, and she smiled into the camera. Bella Wanders here, on a decommissioned coastal defense bastion, a short flight outside L.A. Harbor!

She exuded a youthful vigor, an attitude she knew was critical for keeping her audience mesmerized. Vibrant multicolor ribbons of solar-powered neon light mixed with her natural strands of long blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders, chest, and back to reach as far down as the small of her back. Her synthetic, solar streamers were a gift from a girlfriend involved in the Solar Cult, a neo-pagan religion that had swept through poplar media culture over the previous few decades. Afternoon light gave her visage an attractive glow, an alabaster doll-like face that made her appear younger than her actual age due to a combination of lucky genetics and expertly applied makeup; thus, although she was in her early twenties, many mistook her for a teenager.

She knew how to display her slim but attractively curved frame for her largely male audience. Standing at just under a hundred and fifty centimeters tall, her short stature was proportional with her physique, a body she faintly concealed beneath a white, skin-tight jumpsuit that accentuated her anatomy. To keep her ratings up, she had brazenly drawn the front zipper down to her diaphragm, a shameless display to keep her lovesick audience glued to her live stream.

As well as using her good looks to draw in a large audience of dedicated followers, her exotic travels had taken her to areas the average person could rarely access. Her travel show, produced by the largest media conglomerate, allowed the public a preciously rare view into the world’s most forbidden and mysterious places.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane, my lovely watchers, Bella continued. The camera recorded her upper torso and the abandoned structure beyond her shoulders, and despite her energetic movement, the camera panning was smooth while it kept her face in focus. The cries of seagulls—flying in the background—filled the soundscape beyond her words, and below the piercing cries of hungering birds, the ocean roared gently as waves consistently battered hard, unseen surfaces below. Beneath all these sounds, when it was most serene, the low hum of the camera-drone emanated with the softest decibels. When the crying seagulls seemed to lull, she began again: Ten years ago, some brave senators passed the Global De-Escalation Bill in congress, the American version of a law that our fellow global citizens passed in their own home countries. Since that day, this sea base was destined to be abandoned, or at least officially abandoned by the military. I’ve met some chillin’ dudes here who’ve made this old sea fort their rad art pad!

Bella pivoted on the spot and the camera panned—from right to left—to keep track of her face as gray concrete walls raced past in the background beyond her shoulders. A gap in the concrete façade moved into frame and the camera caught a glimpse of the unbroken blue sea stretching into the horizon. After a brief pass, angular walls reemerged into view and a small band of wary looking people, dressed in old and tattered clothing, shuffled about behind her.

Vibrant murals adorned the walls, paintings that used broad impressionistic brush strokes and vivid colors to tell tales of cultural struggles in an axiomatic fashion. A casual observer would have no need to be familiar with the artist’s vernacular to glean the implicit story presented by the colorful shapes covering the old walls.

A central panel of the wall depicted a man wrapped in the flag of the United States of America as he held out his rifle to another man clothed in elegant business attire. The man receiving the rifle was taller than the flag adorned rifleman, and behind the businessman was another man, much taller and more nefarious looking, with a red star emblazoned on his right arm. The red star man was holding his hands over the head of the finely dressed businessman, and strings were dropping down from his fingers to ensnare the head of the official who was receiving the weapon. Behind the ominous puppeteer was a backdrop of red, a waterfall of blood.

One man stopped to pose for the camera. He had a scruffy short beard, wore tattered clothing from a previous generation, and his hair was a curly mess of dark brown locks. Emblazoned upon his left jacket shoulder, a garment covered in a faded digital camo of gray and blue colored squares, was a worn and faded US Navy insignia. His face was angularly sculpted, a grim countenance that was enhanced by his vibrant green eyes. The man walked up behind Bella and gazed intensely into the camera.

We should never have passed that law! the belligerent man yelled. One day the Chinese will take advantage of our weakness and invade!

Woah there, old timer! Bella said and she jumped away from the man, a move that brought her closer to her hovering camera-drone. She had remained calm when she heard his rapid approach as she misjudged it for pedestrian curiosity; but, when he spoke, when it was obvious that it was no simple photobombing, she panicked since her boss had not prepared her for an actual discourse.

The commies only made it look like they have been toppled! the old man said as he attempted to lean over Bella’s shoulder and gaze directly into the camera. Bella pivoted away to divert the drone’s focus away from him, but despite her efforts, he continued: But all they did was reconsolidate power! They rebranded themselves and anointed a new despot to act as their front man. They want nothing less than the total surrender of our lives, liberty, and land. Bella’s eyes darted about as she silently panicked, and using deft hand gestures, she signaled to her producers sitting in the main studio, hundreds of kilometers away, to cut the feed.

‘No, keep filming, this is good for ratings,’ the manager said into her ear. ‘Besides, who is going to believe this old kook? It’s good entertainment.’

Alrighty, buddy, Bella said. She contorted her face into a silly expression with her eyes crossed upwards and her tongue sticking out, but after a moment of wearing her supercilious smirk, her natural expression returned as she took a step back, reorientated herself, and addressed the man directly. At the gesture of her body language the camera-drone refocused on the space between them and gave equal framing for both speakers. She leaned on her right hip and, with a mocking tone, asked: What’re you doing here to help your tribe with such a big baddie?

‘Good girl,’ her manager said.

I’m a yeoman for the Liberty’s Guard coastal militia, the old man said. I was a captain in the Navy but resigned when I realized how far the Chinese had infiltrated our command. Since Washington passed that treasonous ‘de-escalation’ law, we like-minded patriots decided to do what we can to defend the nation from outside the ranks. Ever since then, we’ve taken possession of these abandoned bases to be a frontline warning system for our brothers back on land.

Wouldn’t the government object to you squatting on their sea fort?

Heh, the old man chuckled. They haven’t the budget or care to clear out some old and peaceful fishermen from sleeping on these unincorporated sea-bastions. Besides, they wouldn’t want a lot of official commotion to take place out here, or it might appear as if they were going against the treasonous law their superiors pushed through congress, because their Chinese masters are always watching the Pacific.

So . . . why even try to do anything if your own military is in on it? Bella asked incredulously.

You mean, why fight for a lost cause? the old man asked. Because if we just give in and don’t try to fight back at all, then and only then are we truly lost.

Two

Encore

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2085, September 12th, 6:30 PM

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Huddled within the safety of a citadel-lifeboat, Captain Gabriel Huntingfield glared into the blue luminescence of the holographic command interface, a free-floating collection of sprites being emitted from a console mounted on the front of the command deck, the control center of his recently defeated frigate. The armored viewing portal of his helmet, shaped as a vertically elongated oval, permitted a limited view of his physical surroundings; however, despite this limited visibility, the advanced interface of the ship broadcasted a smaller version of itself into his forward sight, within his helmet, as it borrowed the local bandwidth provided by his helm’s processor. His short breaths echoed within his head and sweat trickled down his furrowed brow, perspiration that had slowly leaked—one drop at a time—from the mat of dark-brown hair he kept trim.

He was securely strapped into his modular command chair, and around him, at other control panels, his command staff were similarly buckled into modular seats. The crewmembers rattled with the violent vibrations that shook the falling metal capsule around them, and although there was no longer a vessel enveloping the citadel for the officers to command, some of them needlessly plucked at their stations to distract themselves from the possibility of their armored lifeboat becoming a rapidly ruptured sarcophagus.

As Gabriel scrutinized the command interface, an orange icon, the position of his lifeboat above the Earth, was rapidly closing distance with a digital landscape, a holographic representation for the rugged, undulated ground. As he watched the ground rise towards his citadel, and the speed of his falling vector grew with alarming ascendancy, he felt the shuddering turbulence of atmosphere and, more distressingly, the sporadic vibrations from glancing hits of enemy weapons fire.

Red and blue triangular icons, the holographic representations of both friendly and enemy interceptors, danced around the digital icon of his citadel as they engaged in a lethal dogfight around his falling trajectory. Chinese fighters were attempting to line up kill shots on his exposed citadel-lifeboat but American interceptors, that had been originally ordered to escort Gabriel’s frigate squadron, were engaging with these enemy fighters to save their fellow Americans aboard.

Captain Huntingfield, Victor Lima Foxtrot Four, to Fleet Command, Gabriel said into a regional communication channel. He leaned in and turned his head to listen more closely with his left ear, a reflexive gesture that did nothing to improve his hearing but gave him focus. Only static chaos screeched across the channel, but after a second of intense focus, Gabriel thought he heard the briefest echoes of violent screams being cut short after the piercing crack of metal and a loud whoosh of wind. When the strange audio returns had faded, he lifted his head up again and refocused. Captain Huntingfield, Victor Lima Foxtrot Four, to Fleet Command, my frigate has been destroyed. He gazed directly at the section of holographic interface that displayed the communication channels. "I repeat, LF G Three-Two-Two has been lost, citadel falling. Under fire but escorts holding." After another moment of grating static, another voice penetrated the chaos.

Captain Benson, LF Fletcher’s Legacy, Victor Lima Foxtrot Two . . . damaged and tally sixty . . . Captain Benson said with a strained voice, as if he was on the edge of panic. Half of squadron . . . out of action . . . punch out: unknown . . . enemy laced their rounds with something . . . sensors bent . . . no hull breach!

Huntingfield to Benson, clarify, Gabriel said.

It’s like our equipment . . . refusing commands . . . targeting won’t take . . . Captain Benson said, Oh God! Helm! Reorientate . . . or we’re— Benson’s voice was cut short as a cacophony of sound overpowered him: in an infeasibly small amount of time—of the sounds Gabriel could discern—there was a deafening burst, a roaring wind, and a couple of faint incomplete screams that reverberated beyond the interruption of the panicked captain. After less than a second of this discord, static regained its dominion of the channel.

Gabriel blinked in disbelief; Captain Benson was gone. With growing horror, he realized Benson and his entire crew had become evaporated mist when a Chinese slug penetrated their citadel. There was no other explanation for the drama his ears had just heard. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

Warning klaxons interrupted his meditation, electronic beeping emanated from the command interface, and he glanced towards his command console. A small screen displayed the live feed for the descent, a camera mounted on the bottom of the lifeboat giving him a direct view of the rapidly approaching ground.

Touchdown imminent! Gabriel shouted. Punctuating his outburst, a deafening thunderclap overwhelmed his senses within the millisecond of impact, and he felt his stomach collapse. The oxygen in his lungs seemingly evaporated, his breath whisked away, and his mind faded from consciousness.

Silence.

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Gabriel opened his eyes.

I perceive therefore I am . . .

He inhaled slowly. He was alive. Without another second to reconsider his existence, a vibration shook his body.

Captain, wake up, a man said. Gabriel recomposed himself and turned his eyes towards the vocal source. Commander Marcus Cortez, his executive officer and second in command, a loyal friend and crewmate for many years, was gently shaking him by the shoulders. Even though Gabriel was sitting down, Marcus had raised his arms slightly to grasp him by the shoulders since Gabriel possessed an unusually tall stature of two meters and two centimeters. Marcus possessed a one-hundred-seventy-centimeter-tall, compact physique, and was fit enough to meet all service requirements. He kept his dark hair short and well groomed, like his command philosophy, simple and to the point.

We’re alive, Marcus said after a lengthy pause. We’re alright, shaken, but alright. Gabriel leaned forward, away from the headrest, and looked directly at Marcus. Marcus caught Gabriel’s gaze, released the grip of his shoulders, and leaned back from his superior. With an unobstructed view, Gabriel straightened his posture and scanned his surroundings.

Inside the confines of the citadel-lifeboat, his subordinates were shuffling about with nervous focus; some already on their feet and assisting others. As well as himself, each member of his crew was adorned in a vacuum capable navy-colored suit.

These compact suits, known as ‘void-brigandines,’ allowed the wearer to survive in the vacuum of space for lengthy periods of time. While previous generations of extra-vehicular activity suits relied on many thick layers of synthetic fabrics to protect the astronaut, these modern void-brigs, specially designed for the crew of astronautical combat vessels, were much more compact while offering superior protection. On the material level, each ‘brig’ was a body enveloping canvass of exceptionally temperature-resistant synthetics and multi-alloy armored plates. The plates were interlocked with each other, between the thin layers of flexible synthetics, and each alloy plate was micro engineered to such a degree that layers of alternating metals were interwoven into molecularly ordered channels. In the proving trials of the brigandines, it had been determined that the oxygen tanks would usually run empty long before the cold of space could penetrate the interwoven plates and synthetics.

Gabriel noticed how each of his crewmates had removed their helmets, headgear designed to complement the void-brigs for full body protection. The life support system was still functional and there was no active combat threat to worry about. In agreement with his crew’s sentiment, he raised his arms towards his own helmet. He pressed in a pair of buttons, just above the sides of the neck seal, and gently twisted his helm from right to left. After a gentle hiss of equalizing pressure, he raised his helmet up and over his head. An instant later, he slung his helmet over a small hook on the left side of his seat. After an hour of combat deployment, he gazed upon his crew with eyes uncluttered by a floating interface.

The squadron gunnery officer, Lieutenant David Kowalski, to Gabriel’s lower right, to the starboard side of the citadel, was already checking the survival supplies in the bulkhead compartment above his seat. Kowalski was a stout, muscular man of average height, just under two-meters-tall, and an experienced officer who carried himself with efficient diligence. Although thirty-nine years of age, after many years of dedicated service, his superiors found that his erudite expertise in coordinated destruction of targets at long range was far too useful to promote him beyond his current rank. His facial hair grew faster than he could fully trim when under deployment and thus his superiors had learned to tolerate his short but thick beard that adorned his broad face.

The squadron communications officer, Ensign Diana Gonzalez, to Gabriel’s direct left, was scanning the comm channels with her wristwatch since her control station appeared to be inoperable. She was the resident linguist and communications expert, capable of speaking fluently in many languages and regularly demonstrated a natural acumen for deciphering meaning from even the most unintelligible of vocalizations. Because of her acute lingual skills, she was a natural choice to coordinate communications between the vessels of an entire squadron under chaotic combat conditions. She was a meter and a half tall and had tied her dark shoulder length hair in a standard ponytail.

The helmsman, Petty Officer Tony Manly, who seemed to be just barely recuperating, was physically seated a step lower and center to Gabriel. Tony was a thin, one-hundred-and-eighty-centimeter-tall man whose neck hardly filled the collar ring of his suit, and despite lacking the physically imposing physique of a stereotypical soldier, his skill in operating vehicles was an invaluable asset on the battlefield; undoubtedly rooted in his expertise in physics. If a vehicle or vessel was propelled by internal combustion, turbine, or fusion-pulse, he was able to adeptly manipulate the controls of self-propelled machinery with inhuman precision. He was the youngest member of Gabriel’s command staff, and despite being clean shaven, a few short whiskers protruded from his cleft chin.

Gabriel turned his attention back to Marcus.

The skirmish above us? Gabriel asked.

Moved on, sir, Diana replied, interjecting for Marcus. Our pilots gave chase to the remaining bandit just before crash-down.

"Thank God, some good news," Gabriel said. He sighed.

Not really, sir, David said. The weapons expert sheathed a sidearm into his right thigh-holster, a compact accoutrement resting over the material of his void-brig. He busied himself with securing equipment from the bulkheads as he said: At least one enemy fighter was downed in our immediate area, and we have no clue if the pilot survived and if they have small arms of their own. They could be waiting in ambush for us, outside, as we speak.

Proximity Sensors? Gabriel asked.

Down, Sir, David answered. Gabriel reached in towards his chest and unclasped the safety restraints, and they whipped over his shoulders and disappeared into slots on the sides of the seat. He stood up and looked around.

Gather your gear, as much as you can easily carry, Gabriel said. Weapons, ammo, food, water and medical supplies, but nothing else. He glanced at Marcus, standing to his left. How long have we been down?

Crash-down plus thirty, Sir, Marcus said.

It was a soft landing, Sir, Tony said. I think we hit thick topsoil. Luckily enough, soil is very heat resistant, not as conductive as rock or gravel.

Our position? Gabriel asked, and he watched as Tony leaned slightly closer into his console. Tony played with the holographic interface for a moment, and when a map appeared in front of him, its projected canvas of terrain partially enveloping his hands, he returned his gaze to Gabriel.

Just forty miles southeast of Flagstaff, Arizona, Sir, Tony answered.

How is this possible? Gabriel asked. We deployed from the third Sierra Hangar.

When the enemy sabot struck our bow and tore through the upper fuselage, it discarded momentum onto us, Tony answered. Along with the emergency escape bursts, which were designed to rip the citadel back and away from the bow, the force of our citadel maneuvering thrusters compounded with the momentum of the enemy round and we were catapulted backwards, away from the Sierra Nevada and out of California.

The interceptor battle followed us during the fall, post punch-out, David said, expanding upon his shipmate’s report. Thus, as I’ve said before, we should prepare for potential company. As soon as he relayed his concern, David turned towards the bulkhead compartments behind him. He shuffled through the opened compartment, and after a moment, turned back around while clutching a collapsible micro-lance carbine between his hands and offered it to Tony standing near him.

The carbine was a relatively recent technology that had been approved for mass manufacturing by the Department of Munitions and Procurement only four years previously. Previous generations of small arms depended on the force of ignited gas from smokeless powder to propel rounds, but these newest carbines where in fact miniaturized hand-held versions of the same magnetic lance technology that was fielded by the astronautical frigates, infantry weapons that retained functional lethality in the harsh vacuum of space and even beneath the waters of a sea to a certain depth.

Tony accepted the compact weapon and hoisted it over his right shoulder using the shoulder-strap. David turned around and gathered another carbine from the concealed rack. He turned back and gestured towards Diana. She stepped forward and collected the weapon.

Something still doesn’t sit right, Gabriel said as the proliferation continued. Lieutenant, do you remember, during the battle, the profile of the enemy frigates?

Yes, Sir. Hard to miss them on my station, David replied. He chuckled briefly, despite their circumstances. I could have sworn I was looking at a giant mirror, or at least, that our frigate’s sensor suite was. He offered Gabriel the gray carbine suspended between his two outstretched hands, a lethal instrument measuring eighty centimeters in length with the stock collapsed. Gabriel shook his head gently and, using his right hand, pointed to his own hip where a high-caliber pistol, a seemingly anachronistic sidearm for the modern era, rested in the holster. David smiled and turned away.

That’s my point, Gabriel said. It’s as if the Chinese made copycat vessels of similar design. There were a few differences, mainly that they looked like the older prototypes, but still, it was uncanny.

I hate to suggest it, Sir, David said, "but it’s highly likely the Department of Munitions and Procurement was compromised by the Imperium a while back. I wouldn’t doubt it some treasonous bastard received a plush retirement fund in an offshore account after he accidently left some schematics on his holo-top with the firewall conveniently turned off."

If that’s the case, Lieutenant, Gabriel said, then I can only hope they didn’t also get a hold of the schematics for citadel-lifeboats. While it may seem dark to say this, if we’re to stand a chance in this war, then I must hope every frigate we destroyed took their crews with them. They may have hordes of infantry, and perhaps even many spare vessels waiting for a crew, but skilled crewmen are a rare asset.

Good point, Sir, David replied. I remember the gratuitous endurance trials and time acuity tests I had to pass before transferring into the LF division.

Ensign, Gabriel said, and he swiveled his gaze over to Diana. My interface is down, have you been able to reconnect with squadron? How many still active?

Sir, Diana said, right before crash down, I can only confirm three of our squad were still in fighting positions over the Sierra.

Damn, Gabriel muttered. Along with us, that means half of the squadron was out of action more than thirty minutes ago. Over the course of the debriefing, the crew had gathered their gear and freshly distributed weaponry, and when their field kit had been properly orientated, they stood at attention in front of each of their stations. Each officer clutched a carbine, had a small pack on their back, and had reequipped their helmet.

Commander, Gabriel said, get us out of here.

Aye, Sir! Marcus replied, his voice distorted by the helmet speaker. Alright crew, initiate scuttle protocols. When your systems have been neutralized, form a line at the access corridor astern! As soon as Marcus gave the order, the other officers turned around and pressed physical buttons on the sides of their control panels. After these buttons were pressed, in a certain sequence, a muffled internal burst echoed from within each system panel.

Gabriel pivoted around and reached towards his own station. With the holographic panel disabled, he leaned down and accessed a small panel halfway down the station, a battery powered board that displayed operational functions on a dimly lit screen. Below the small screen was a miniaturized keyboard that was too small for human-sized fingers; however, he continued undeterred, and, using the index finger of his left hand, pressed a small button on the back of his right gauntlet and tiny mechanical spurs shot out from the fingertips. With the small mechanical digits, he plucked command codes into the impossibly small keyboard and initiated the timed scuttle protocol. When his last code had been entered, he glanced up and watched as Marcus completed the same task on his own station but with a unique set of security codes.

The controlled self-destruct sequence had been primed, a critical protocol to prevent enemy salvaging efforts, and Gabriel nodded at Marcus who returned the gesture. Gabriel stood up from his console and reached for his helmet that had been hanging from the left side of his chair. He picked up the helmet and lifted it towards his head. As the helmet loomed over his head, he looked up, his line of sight passing closely under his brow, and gazed into the helmet interior. The holographic displays on the back of the oval face plate flickered on, a collection of thin blue sprites, as his head filled the advanced casque. After a second of gentle descent, he eased the helmet down around his head, into the circular neck seal, and it snapped into place with a gentle click.

Squad, form a line! Marcus said. Gabriel heard Marcus from his helmet’s headphones, the shared channel capturing every syllable. Marcus began gesturing to each crewmember in turn as he said: Manly, take point! Kowalski, behind him! Gonzalez, third! Gabriel observed his officers heading towards the stern hatch. As they left, he exchanged a glance with Marcus who, besides himself, was the last officer remaining. Gabriel peered through the oval window of his officer’s helmet as Marcus said: Sir, behind me please.

Three

Thrones

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Six Months Before World War III

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High in the frigid thin air of the Himalayan peaks, wind strewn snow amassed thickly upon an enormous circlet of gleaming platinum, a semicircular structure that projected horizontally from the steep summit it had been buttressed to by long metal columns rising from the dark wintery depths below. Surrounding the snow-covered circlet, a pallid gloom dominated the rugged landscape of deadly heights as inhospitable winter draped nearly endless shadow upon all but the highest peaks. This suspended structure, crowning the mountain like an enormous tiara, was so large that ten kilometers spanned the gap between its furthest points, between which astronautical frigates flew about as they maneuvered in the open-air harbor.

The frigates, capable of idling gracefully within low atmosphere, continuously maneuvered to make room for the seemingly endless stream of other frigates, cohort vessels emerging from the harsh light of a rectangular maw within the inside curve of the crescent-shaped facility. The frigate spewing maw was a portal to a highly ordered realm of industry, a cavernous shipyard—filled with mass-scale furnaces, plasma cutters, all emitting blinding light—that assembled frigates with almost reckless rapidity, a blistering contrast to the frigid expanse of mountain peaks filling the horizon beyond the facility. Above the maneuvering vessels and sporadic, rhythmic gyrations of large beam-mounted cargo grapples, a thin row of white light spilled out from the windows of a short, thickly plated tower, an armored spire that ascended from one of the arms of the crescent shaped shipyard and commanded a view of the entire harbor and the enveloping mountains.

Why didn’t you end him sooner?! demanded Zhao-Ying Shǐ Shen Dì, the Emperor of the People’s Imperium of China. His large silvery-drenched hologram shifted with intermittent static as he sat upon a thick throne built of obsidian reminiscent material. Zhao was leaning forward, and as he glared down at a man who was bowing low before his semitransparent figure, anger bulged out his delicate eyes and strained his round cheeks. Unlike the corpulent ruler, the man bowing before him was a physical embodiment of muscular perfection and possessed a broad, angular face with full lips, a sculpted nose, and thick eyebrows. He had a natural shadow below his dark brown eyes and his chin and mouth were accentuated by a short, well-groomed goatee styled beard. His angular frame was wrapped in black fabrics that hid the finer details of his anatomy.

After an ominous pause, Zhao spoke. Boris, the so called 'Unchained,' has been a burrowing thorn in the sides of our Neo-Soviet allies, and yet you take your time in persecuting him and his ilk of rebel dogs! For my Supreme General, you seem to be lacking mettle!

My benevolent Emperor, the bowing man began. I was concerned with preserving your honor, in the spirit of your hallowed ancestors—

Weak, all of them! Zhao shouted. They didn't have the courage to attempt what I have set in motion!

Apologies . . .

Don't grovel, act! Zhao said. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again, this time with a lower voice. We’re approaching critical engagement and we can’t allow every obstacle to slow our finalization. We have discovered an underground patriot organization within the United States that is well funded, very secretive, and most disagreeably, covertly positioned to deny our total control of their national defense. You must disable them by any means possible, without attracting unwanted attention or leaving evidence of our efforts, as carelessness can tip our hand and cause them to retreat further into secrecy.

Yes, my Emperor, said the lower man. He looked up towards the surly monarch. I have fiercely competent agents that can assist in this task.

Whatever it takes, just see that it is done, Subutai! Zhao commanded. He waived his right hand flippantly and his hologram faded away. As soon as the light from the secured transmission had faded, and the room grew dim, Subutai stood abruptly. He was alone.

Sure thing . . . Subutai said quietly through a smirk. Fat fuck. He turned around and began walking. Pale moonlight shined into the long, narrow chamber, a transmission court. Along the length of the plain room, flanking the center walkway, were perpendicular rows of flat and unwelcoming seats. As he reached the end of the room, a smooth black door automatically opened, slid to his left, and disappeared into the wall to clear his passage. He passed through the open door, turned right, and after another ten steps, proceeded down an elaborately constructed spiral staircase.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, his face was enveloped by the vibrant blue light of a distant tesla-pyre, illumination being emitted from a circular pit at the center of a large, round chamber with the dimensions of a small coliseum. The tesla-pyre was encased in a protective polymer screen that prevented sparks from escaping. Various pieces of highly stylistic furniture, upholstered in red fabric, surrounded the sporadic light source in concentric rows. Each unit of this stylish furniture resembled the enlarged hybridization of a sofa and a bed as they possessed the necessary comforts of both. Plush padding skinned the interior sides and backing of each couch-bed and their main seating pad was long enough, from back to the front, for an adult to lay flat from head to toe. To the side of each couch-bed were small drink dispensing units encased in gleaming white stone. From the simplicity of their construction, it appeared as if each machine was merely a solid block of marble that had been carved out in the center so that the machinery that stored and dispend liquid refreshment could be crammed inside. It was a luxurious room, built for entertaining guests, unlike the spartan gallery Subutai had used to converse with his superior.

Sorry for the delay, Subutai said. He approached one of the curved couch-beds, a sofa facing the tesla-pyre from a central ring of four other sofas. That was the emperor, and it’s ill-advised to keep him waiting.

Funny . . . you don't look Chinese, a woman remarked. The feminine purr echoed from the same red, silken couch Subutai had approached. He turned to the golem-aquifer on his righthand side and leaned down to access the service space, the gap within the middle of the polished stone block. As he prepared himself a drink, he turned his head to the left and allowed his gaze to wander over the pleasing beauty resting on the couch before him, the escort his servants had brought him.

A young, voluptuous woman was resting on her right side, her head furthest away as he stood near her feet. She was draped in a loosely fitted red dress that partially camouflaged her body with the burgundy upholstery around her. The smooth, red cloth of her dress covered only twenty centimeters below her groin, and below the bottom of that meagre demarcation, she was naked from her shapely thighs down to her slender legs and feet.

As Subutai soaked in her appearance, he smirked when he noticed how the cloth of her dress just barely covered the cheeks of her behind; similarly, the outfit left the center of her chest exposed in a diamond shaped pattern reaching down to her navel. Her arms were naked beyond the slim strips of fabric that covered the shoulders as they held the dress to her body.

She was supporting her right cheek with the palm of her right hand while her left arm rested gently along the side of her body. Although her arms were thin, the biceps were firm with compacted muscle. Her face was round yet not rotund, a charming visage that could easily disarm men as she possessed a smile of glistening white teeth, red lips, and a perfectly proportionate nose. Blue light from the lightning pyre danced within her amber eyes while her eyebrows and hair reflected an orange radiance. Her bangs were cut short above her eyebrows, but the remainder of her long locks fell across her arm, chest, and back. Subutai leered as he realized it would have been easy for an unknowing stranger to mistake her for some sort of pleasure android, a convenient coincidence.

No, I'm not, Subutai said. He filled a small glass with a beverage. I was born in New Zealand; my father was Samoan, and my mother was English. Why did you choose to notice this, Kestrel?

Well . . . Kestrel began, it just seems things are getting very pricey with old Zhao and his empire, and I was just curious, why does a man, not of Chinese nationality, have any reason to play lead singer for the Chinese military?

He’s Emperor Shen to you, and yes . . . Subutai said. He paused for a second, and smirked. You’ve made an interesting observation. He sighed, raised the glass to his mouth, tilted his head back, and downed the contents. He gazed at Kestrel. My parents were killed in an accident over the sea when I was young, maybe five. We were on a relaxed weekend outing, a coastal cruise above the beaches of Queensland Australia. The helmsman of our vessel was distracted, probably too busy enjoying the beautiful sight of the coast from hundreds of meters up. Whatever the reason, he didn’t spot the astro-freighter that was descending into a docking vector from the stratosphere above. Before I could blink, I found myself flying across the deck of the ship as it collided. The impact broke nearly every bone in my body.

Oh my, Kestrel said. She shot up from her horizontal rest and leaned on her right palm.

I was lucky, Subutai said. I survived, barely, but I lived. My parents were not so lucky, they were on the open top deck when they fell overboard and landed in between the crunching ships. There was nothing left to bury.

You poor thing. . .

Don’t pity me, Subutai said with a sudden outburst. Besides, I’m a stronger man today than I ever would have been if I had a normal childhood. Surviving the worst only makes one stronger.

So . . . Kestrel said, how does Zhao come into the picture?

During the impact, Subutai said, leering at her again, I blacked out, my body ruined with pain beyond my conscious capacity. When I awakened shortly after, the first thing I saw was a Chinese man, dressed in uniform, attempting to triage me. The Chinese military had a recon vessel nearby when the accident occurred, they were on a training patrol off the coast that day. I was one of the few survivors.

They didn’t try to send you back home to New Zealand? Kestrel asked.

No, Subutai answered, the accident occurred in Australian waters and the ruling party didn’t want the western powers to know they had covert vessels operating just off the coast of Australia. So, they took me in, kept me alive, to perhaps see what value my life could provide.

How mercenary.

Perhaps, Subutai said, but I think the main reason was the fact that I was still breathing when they inspected me, even though by all medical facts I should have been dead. Much later I was told, by the emperor no less, that they saw the potential to extract that indominable survival capacity from my DNA, to help them genetically engineer future generations of soldiers. He turned to his right, leaned down, and accessed the golem again. As he refilled his empty glass, he retrieved another and gazed back at Kestrel. A drink, my clandestine dear?

Kestrel’s mouth contorted from a sultry grin, to a pout, and then finally a smile again. I was hoping you would ask.

Subutai nodded and then manipulated a smooth lever within the stone unit. He placed both glasses underneath a small opening, and a second later, narrow streams of clear liquid began pouring into the glasses. Kestrel leaned forward and watched him closely as the glasses were filled. He looked at the beautiful woman again and noticed how she was leaning forward, intently watching his hands. She caught his glance and gently shook her torso with flirtatious flare.

Sorry, dear, Kestrel said. I wanted to make sure it was a good drink.

Oh, it is, Subutai said as he straightened his stance again, or I wouldn’t be enjoying it myself. He handed her the glass in his left hand, and, in a silent blur of motion, she deftly seized it with both of her hands. Subutai smirked at the irony, as the glass seemed small in one of his own massive hands, but Kestrel, an average-sized woman, needed to use both hands to securely grip the receptacle. After appreciating the delicious observation, he turned to his left and gave her a sidelong glance. Anyways, where was I?

You were describing why the Chinese saved you, Kestrel said. She brought the glass to her lips, tilted it back, and sipped.

Ah yes, Subutai said. They transported me back to a proper medical facility on an island base in the south China sea; there, they mended me, nursed me back to health. Over many years they reconstructed my body using the latest technology and medicine, but then something happened during the procedures, something that began naturally at first but then the medical research team was inspired to exacerbate the phenomena. He stepped forward and turned around to sit on the edge of the couch, next to Kestrel, no more than half a meter away from her right side. He leaned towards her, his inhumanly large frame of thickly corded muscle towering over her. My anatomy contorted, and I became something more than human. My muscles became thick and dense, and when I had grown into my teenage body, I was stronger than any champion bodybuilder known to history. My bones, with each one having been broken uncountable times, were mended, but instead of returning to their normal form, they thickened and grew some sort of plated armor on their surface.

––––––––

How is that possible? Kestrel asked. The strain should have given you a heart attack in the least! She felt a chill sweep over her, and for a moment, she looked away from Subutai and focused on the tesla-pyre in front of her, as if she was daydreaming.

What was in that drink?

Ah, that’s the thing, Subutai said. The Chinese scientists had been experimenting with medical and genetic technology long before they found me. I just happened to become their latest hope in advancing that research. So, because of my natural endurance, they thought to physically enhance my anatomy. He swiftly reached forward with his massive right hand and gathered Kestrel’s comparatively petite hand, her right hand nearly swallowed by the thick digits of his paw, as if a large gorilla had captured the hand of a child. She had gasped from the sheer speed of the motion, a movement so swift that the cold beverage splashed upon her left hand when her right was pulled from the two-sided grip of her glass. Still stunned at his unexpected advance, she watched as he forced her hand between the fabrics of his robes and nestled her fingers against his sternum. As soon as this happened, Kestrel realized something was wrong, as she expected to only feel a single repeating pulse from one side of his chest; instead, she felt two distinctly separate yet complementary beats strumming from both sides of his chest.

"Two hearts?" Kestrel asked with an alarmed whisper.

Yes! Subutai yelled. Kestrel leaned back, struggled to pull her hand free, and after a moment of helpless pulling, he released her. She inched herself away from him, towards the other end of the couch, the side with the golem-aquafer. In an instant, his countenance changed from an arrogant smirk to a menacing scowl.

He lunged at her retreating form, balancing himself with his left hand on the padded cushion, and grabbed Kestrel by the throat with his right hand. The impact winded her, her esophagus unnaturally pushed inwards by his colossal grip, and she gasped. Subutai eased his grip while keeping her neck locked within his massive hand. He eased forward and hovered his lips next to her right ear.

You disappoint me, Subutai said. For an assassin, you should have done your homework. It was foolish of you to think me so easily distracted by your feminine charms. Kestrel’s eyes went wide as fear seized her mind more violently than her captor’s strong grip.

Her cover had been blown; her mission compromised. Even as she gasped for air, she understood how she had unwisely ignored that little nagging doubt in the back of her mind. It had been too easy to have arranged a meeting with him, to disguise herself as an elite escort for a visit to an incredibly remote place hidden from the wider world. Her poison, which had been carefully administered to the drink dispenser, had no apparent effect, he was immune.

As these thoughts streamed through her mind, shew watched as Subutai drew his head back from her ear and looked back at her. It was obvious from his gesture that he wanted her to see him look, and after a significant pause, he spoke in a lecherous tone. Although, based on your dress, many would assume you were easy. He released his grip and Kestrel gasped loudly with an inhale.

If . . . Kestrel huffed between words, if I’m . . . an assassin . . . isn’t . . . stupid . . . to let go . . . of me?

Oh, you poor, pretty slut! Subutai said with a mocking chortle, I’ve been onto you from the start. You thought you could take the place of one of my groomed servants? You should have realized that the women prepared for me are not so free spirited; they exercise restraint. I know who you truly work for, and I’ve had words with those who would wield you like a dagger against enemies. You thought to poison me with my own machine but didn’t realize I could have done the same to you.

Ah! Kestrel blurted and she dropped her glass. The symptoms of whatever substance Subutai had laced the drink with, previously only a mild chill, had become unmistakable: she was losing motor control.

Don’t worry dear, it’s not lethal, if I don’t want it to be, Subutai said. He leaned forward, hovering his face only a few centimeters from hers. "As we speak, millions of nanites course through your veins. They can cause instant death upon my command, if I so choose, and they can control your basic motor functions and override your nervous system. You’re my assassin now, my pretty tool to use how I see fit." Subutai leaned back from her strained face. He eased off the front of the couch, stood up, turned around, and faced her again.

Despite her terror, that every part of her conscious will was screaming internally, she found herself moving towards him, against her impulses. She felt her hips twist from right to left as her weight was rebalanced upon her knees. When she was no longer sitting against the back of the couch, she felt her body crawl towards him. When she neared the end of the couch, even as her mind wailed, she felt her legs move as they twisted her torso again and laid her rear upon the edge of the couch. He loomed over her and looked down from above.

I told Boris I only wanted the best, Subutai said. I told him it would disappoint me if his agent didn’t try to kill me, and so you see, you both failed and succeeded at the same. He reached forward with his right hand and grabbed her by the hair. With her red locks tightly gripped, he dragged her head closer.

Your emperor will kill you for this, Kestrel said, angrily spitting her words, to be working with one of his sworn enemies!

What the emperor knows is my concern, Subutai said. He may think himself the master of his people’s Imperium, with his global ambitions, but I have greater plans for humanity. I will not waste this grand opportunity as I push us all towards something greater. Subutai shook Kestrel’s head with quick sideways bursts, like a dog with a toy, and she squinted her eyes and locked her jaw to bear the pain. After a few violent shakes, he stepped backwards, and she was forced to follow with her hair tightly bound in his fist. He shoved her to her knees, and, with her defeated form directly before him, he finally released his grip from her head.

She struggled to stand, unable to control her own muscles; the nanite saturation was complete. Subutai smiled as a bulging vein in Kestrel’s slender neck revealed her stubborn resistance. His tall dark frame towered over her scantily clad, kneeling form.

Why don’t you just kill me? Kestrel asked. "If I live, I’ll have the opportunity to warn your