“Yes, mam.”
Hoshi checked in with the three other pairs, two of which included relatively new members to Red Team. The disaster at Kartuffe four months ago left them weakened. Capt. Felt integrated soldiers who were not as far along in their respective Dyson arcs but proved capable in field work.
For a few weeks, Connor feared Hoshi would be replaced as team leader given the three deaths. Yet he and others made a point of pleading with Felt to keep her at the helm. Connor’s recent promotion to First Lieutenant might have signaled a change. Instead, Felt pointed to the likely expansion of Requiem operations in the coming weeks.
“You’ll soon have your own team, Lieutenant,” Felt said from his executive office. “You’re on as fast a track as anyone I’ve ever seen. Someday, you’ll be commanding a battalion, if not your own ship.”
Someday.
As in, after the declared war began.
Their hopes were dashed when the idiots in Congress lacked the spine to change the Constitution. Yet MR-44 was always one maneuver among many.
Tonight’s mission, if successful, would set in motion a series of events not even the IC could derail.
One step at a time.
He and Kaz entered the lobby of the Festiva Morada, a century-old high-rise and one of the last built in Barca with a stone facade. Its grand murals on the high-banked walls and the echoes of feet clomping on marble floors gave an old-world sensation that pleased Connor.
Was it the attention to detail? Was it the reminder of a time when Catalan society appreciated tradition and simple values of a clean life? A time when the Chancellory and its Unification Guard made sure neither this colony nor any other strayed from the fold.
That time would return, with all castes to share in the new order.
One step at a time.
Connor and Kaz approached the lifts, where a crowd waited. When the central door opened, a few eager folks stepped forward – tenants, most likely – until Connor grunted.
“Out of the way.”
No one dared object.
They entered the lift alone and glared at the crowd as the doors slid shut.
“I could get used to this, bruv,” Connor said with a chuckle.
“That, Big C, is a perfect combination of fear and respect.”
They did their homework on the history of the Cauldron, founded five hundred years ago. It was a secret society at first, born out of collusion with the Chancellor Regional Sanctums, to perpetuate a connection to pre-history Basque traditions on Earth. It acted as an imperial proxy, gained a firm hold on the planet’s underworld, and spread its public footprint through philanthropy.
When the old Collectorate fell in 5358, the Cauldon’s Legion of Ministers created a provisional federal government. They acted out of apparent charity during tumultuous times then freely gave up power when the People’s Collectorate formed. Intel suggested they numbered less than two thousand members yet influenced almost every lever of power.
Almost being the operative word.
Two enemies refused to bow. Black Star, of course. Also the Madi, a populist political party which filled thirty percent of the seats in the federal government. The Madi advocated for individual sovereignty. It wanted to globalize all industry and distribute that wealth across the marginalized classes.
Nexus claimed Madi’s leadership was firmly on Black Star’s pay stamp. If it achieved enough power to form coalitions, it would try to sink the federal government and allow Black Star’s agents to walk in through the front door. The wealthiest, most industrial planet in the Collectorate would fall into chaos.
This was unacceptable.
Catalan needed to lead in the wake of Congress’s failure. Tonight’s coordinated action, combined with the inevitable fallout, would cement power for the leaders Requiem sought.
As they neared the penthouse level, Connor tweaked his left fingers to alter his glasses’ interface. He hunted for human heat signatures.
In a perfect world, his superflex armor would have extended neck up, hidden behind a shifter projection. Alas, the technology’s flaws rendered it unusable for certain disguises. Testing proved it could not sustain the wide bucket hat without ‘holo-fog,’ frayed edges that betrayed the disguise.
Connor appreciated entering a danger zone knowing a laser bolt could blow his brains out. Superflex made for beautiful head armor, but it created complacency. He needed to muster faster reaction time under these conditions. Good field training.
“Three,” Connor said.
“Got ’em,” Kaz answered.
“We follow the script. If they cooperate, they live.”
For now.
He and Kaz recited the mantras which guided them to Catalan:
“I am whole and true to myself. My purpose cannot be denied. They will see my grace and be misled. When the truth is known, I will show no mercy to my enemies.”
The best mates shared a smile as the door slid open.
Three suites lay before them. Left, center, right. They already knew which one was unoccupied tonight, which one would have to be silenced after the fact, and where their targets resided.
Straight ahead.
Three men disguised as Barca City badges waited with Mark 12 blast rifles against their chest. Only one held his ground. The others’ eyes ballooned at the sight of Cauldron agents.
“Stop,” the steadfast guard said. “You have no business here.”
