The Biomass Revolution

Chapter 5: Spartans

It was two in the morning and the Commanding Royal Knight of Tisaia, Alexander Augustus, paced back and forth nervously in his quarters. His left hand grasped a half smoked cigar that bled a trail of smoke up into his nostrils. Two drops of sweat crept down the Knight’s forehead, finding their way into a scar that left a deep ravine down his left cheek. At the age of 45, the Knight had his fair share of scars. It was one reason he had gained his rank so quickly. Historically the Commanding Royal Knights were picked for their distinguished military role in Tisaia. There were only two before him, both assassinated before their second year of service. Augustus had already served two terms and was entering his third. He had survived two assassination attempts and knew the next one was probably imminent.

Four of his staff members sat around the marble war table in the center of his office. He watched his most trusted confidante, Chief of Staff Simmon, discussing recent events with his subordinates.

The candle light flickered in the dark room, illuminating the murals painted across the ceiling. The scene depicted the ancient battle of Thermopylae in 480BC, where the small and vastly outnumbered Spartan armies of Greece prevented the Persian army from following the main Greek army in their retreat. The mural was created at the beginning of his first term. After long work days he was known to lock the monstrous oak doors to his office, pour a glass of whiskey and study the mural from the comfort of his plush leather chair.

“Sir, with respect, I think we have enough information to shut down the trolley stations indefinitely. It appears this was not an isolated attack and our intelligence sources indicate there may be other impending attacks. I think the rebels have the capability of launching another attack on this scale again, at any time,” Staffer Marcus Mcaina argued.

Simmon did not respond. Instead his ocean blue eyes remained fixated on the holographic data streaming from a projector in the middle of the marble table. He studied the data, requesting the AI to move on after he had read one entry in its entirety. Behind him the Commander continued to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace that extended from the south wall of the room. As the sound of the minute hand on the grandfather clock clicked away, Simmon continued to read, analyzing the situation through every avenue he could think of. The uneasiness in the room faded away until the crack of a burning log in the fireplace brought Simmon to his feet.

“Commander, I’d like to issue my opinion,” Simmon said, propping his sword against his chair out of respect. Augustus raised his brow, and moved his solid stone jaw in approval.

“Staffer Mcaina seems to think we should yield to the terrorist rebels. In fact, he would have you believe we should completely shut down our underground trolley stations. He claims this small group of radicals has the capability to launch similar attacks at any given time. And while our intelligence has given us adequate information to assume this to be true, I’d argue we meet this threat head on. Let us staff the trolley stations with more soldiers and launch an offensive into the heart of these rebels. We shall take this fight underground and crush this rebellion once and for all. The safety of Tisaia and her citizens depends on a victory, not to mention the financial well-being of our already fragile economy. If we shut down the trolley stations, our State workers will have to find new forms of transportation to work, which may place delays in all government departments,” the Chief of Staff said.

Simmon was a man of few words. His motto was, least said, easiest mended, but there was never a time when he was afraid to voice his opinion. After analyzing the data, he came to what he thought was a reasonable solution and sold it to his commander. In fact, he was usually Augustus’ voice of reason. It wasn’t uncommon for Mcaina and Simmon to argue, but in situations with the TDU, Simmon’s position had always allowed him to gain the upper hand.

For a few moments the entire room remained silent. The tick of the grandfather clock and occasional crack of the fire were the only source of noise in the uncomfortably quiet room. Every one of the staffers at the war table knew the stakes projected in front of them. If they did not act against the rebels, Tisaia’s fate might not be much different from the rest of the world’s.

As the hour hand of the grandfather clock struck midnight Augustus took one last drag of his cigar, savoring the smoke before he exhaled it into the air. He rose from his chair and placed both of his large and rough hands on the table.

“Gentlemen, I have made my final decision.” He paused to watch his silent staffers. There was something about making his subordinates wait for his decision that was so gratifying.

“I have decided that we’ll reopen and reverse Project 1200,” he said, pausing to gauge their reaction.

Mcaina and Simmon immediately fidgeted in their chairs while another staffer reached for his tie, attempting to loosen it. Everyone around the table knew Project 1200 referenced the underground tunnels below Tisaia. They all remembered the horrors committed there by the Tisaian National Army before it was disbanded at the end of the war and replaced with the Council of Royal Knights. It was at the height of the Biomass Wars, when the survivors of the holocaust had gone underground to survive. There were entire cities of survivors underneath the surface of Tisaia, seeking refuge from the radiation poisoning above. And there wasn’t enough food or shelter for all of them. So the young Tisaian government had simply closed off access to some of the tunnels, leaving the survivors on the other side to fend for themselves. Most of them starved to death, while others were said to have left to take their chances in the Wasteland. Reversing Project 1200 meant reopening the tombs of the past, something unthinkable until now.

“I’m authorizing this project to reopen under strict guidelines. The project shall be overseen primarily by the Special Forces group, the Dark Horses. They will be deployed as a hunter killer unit, sent out to explore the tunnels closed off for years. This is where we believe the TDU to be hiding. Only a handful of CRK officers will know about this project and it shall be conducted with the utmost secrecy. As for Simmon’s recommendations, I have decided we shall divert half of the available reserve CRK forces to be posted in all public facilities. Furthermore, the trolley stations shall be staffed with our finest officers. Lastly, I’m going to recommend we increase our offensive against the rebels. I want their leader caught, and their headquarters discovered within two weeks. With the reopening of these tunnels that should be more than enough time, don’t you think?” He turned his back to his staff to face the heat of the burning fire.

Simmon nodded in approval, savoring the small victory he had gained over Mcaina. The Dark Horses were the best Knights they had, but Simmon wasn’t sure if even they had the stomach for what they would find. He could only imagine the horrors and utter terror those on the other side experienced when they were closed.

As the staffers filed quietly out his door, Augustus turned once again to view the mural of the Battle of Thermopylae. An uncharacteristic sense of fear washed over him as he thought of the battle that lay ahead. He always compared his men to the Spartans. Their fierce loyalty, bravery, and skills as warriors defined the CRK, just like it had the Spartans. And for a second he questioned how history would remember his men. Would they compare them to the Spartans or the Persians? The thought disappeared quicker than the sparks crackling inside his fireplace. It was a shameful reflection to have, especially for the Commander of the CRK, and it only strengthened his resolve to crush the TDU.

He smiled, watching the fire consume the logs, knowing that history would remember him and his men as modern day Spartans after they destroyed the TDU.

Commander Augustus lay in his oversized bed, counting the small clouds of smoke trailing out of his burning cigarette. He looked to the empty pillow next to him, only to be reminded that his wife was no longer alive, the victim of a bullet meant for him. He rested his head back down on his pillow, thoughts of the past racing through his mind. Quickly, the memories brought back the familiar pain only cured by a heavy dose of whiskey.

The early morning hours were always the worst, as he began to mentally prepare himself for the day before him. In the years following the Biomass Wars, when the world went to shit, Augustus was just a young man. His father and brother were both in the United States Army before it crumbled with the rest of the government. Augustus and his family were a few of the fortunate survivors. They scratched out a living in the tunnels below what had once been the great city of Chicago, now nothing more than ruins in the distance.

He had risen to the top of the CRK through the fire and destitution many of his colleagues also faced. These hardships helped the survivors create a strong Tisaia, one he would do anything for. He would stop at nothing in his quest to rid Tisaia of the TDU terrorist threat. Politics meant little to him. The discussion of Bill 12b was nothing more than a side note on his desk. He never questioned Governor Felix’s orders. It wasn’t his job. His job was to protect Tisaia from her many enemies.

He blew another cloud of smoke into the air, forgetting his troubles. A clock in his sparsely furnished bedroom rang, indicating it was 6:00 am, and the day had officially begun. Today everything is going to change, he thought, smearing the butt of his cigarette on a glass ashtray beside his bed. The embers cooled and suffocated, dying in their glass grave.

The auditorium was warm, so warm that the select group known as the Dark Horses had removed their helmets as they sat waiting for their new assignment. Many of them had heard the rumors already—Project 1200 was being reopened, but most of the Knights didn't believe it could be true. After all, a Knight was not selected and assigned to the Dark Horses by believing rumors or participating in gossip. The Dark Horses were the most honorable and skilled group of Knights in the CRK. They went through years of testing and training to get where they were, and not a single one of them dared jeopardize it in anyway. They knew the drill: sit and wait, listen to the orders, and execute them flawlessly. It was all just part of the job.

In the center of the room a blue hologram shot out of a small opening in the marble table, illuminating the CRK’s main auditorium as the lights dimmed in the room. Supreme Royal Knight Morr stood at the side of the table, tapping his helmet, which he had removed to examine the blueprints.

“Listen up, men. We have intelligence indicating the rebels are hiding out somewhere on the western border of Lunia, shortly outside these walls,” he said, pointing to several locations on the blueprints. “Jeriche, I need my glasses,” Morr shouted impatiently. His assistant rose from the first row and quickly made his way to the center of the auditorium to hand Morr his glasses. “Thanks,” he said, briefly acknowledging the short man’s presence.

Jeriche walked back to his seat, waiting for Morr to give him another command. For the past four years he served with a staunch resolution, completing every task asked of him. He could only hope his commander would reward him for his unwavering loyalty someday.

Back at the table Morr slipped on his glasses and focused on the blueprints, the blue glow of the holograms illuminating his meticulously kept armor. He stood for several minutes, thumbing through the images, before bringing his fist down on the table in anger.

“Can someone explain why the hell we can’t get a current map of these locations?” he screamed. The Knight scanned the dim room, but the Dark Horses stared back at their leader blankly.

“Well! Which one of you is responsible for these blueprints?” he demanded, anger growing in his voice.

Finally, after minutes of silence, an engineer assigned to the squad rose from his seat.

“Sir, with respect, the Sector of Governmental Services is supposed to be surveying all tunnels and storm drains below Tisaia. However, those tunnels aren't mapped because," the engineer paused and glanced nervously at his feet. "Those tunnels were part of Project 1200 and were closed off years ago," he finished nervously.

Morr paused to take his glasses off so his naked eyes could fall on his men with no impediments. He needed to gauge their reactions. It was a part of what made him one of the best: being able to read his soldiers, to see how far he could push them before they would break. It was a skill all great commanders in the history of warfare perfected. And it won wars.

“You know I’m not melodramatic, but men, you’re some of the finest damn soldiers in Tisaia. What I’m about to tell you, I don’t do lightheartedly. Project 1200 is being reopened. This comes from the very top. We have two weeks to map these tunnels and flush out the TDU. Augustus believes they’re hiding in these tunnels and Governor Felix has signed off on this plan.”

The crowd of Knights stared back at him blankly. Not a single one of them flinched. The engineer was the only one squirming in his chair. Just when Morr was about to turn, satisfied his men were up for the challenge, a middle-aged Knight named Riya, who served as an adviser to Commander Augustus, stood. Most of his colleagues knew him for his quick thinking and his ability to negotiate.

“Permission to speak, Supreme Knight Morr,” Riya asked.

“What possible input could you bring to this conversation, Knight Riya?”

Morr and Riya had a long past. They both joined the academy and served as cadets in the same class. They quickly became class rivals and it was Riya who obtained the highest rank a cadet could earn before becoming a Knight. Their history had since been a clouded one, where competition and rivalry fueled many of their policy moves.

Riya laughed arrogantly, showing no respect for his superior. “What could I possibly bring to this dialogue?” he asked, chuckling.

“The first thing I could do is tell you the tunnels that were closed off decades ago under Project 1200 are nowhere you want to send your best men. I know because I was there many years ago. The horrors in those tunnels are unspeakable. They would be the last place the TDU would be hiding.” Riya said.

“Two weeks to map an area as large as this is an impossible task and will only result in more deaths of SGS employees and Knights. Being an advisor to the Governor, I could certainly ask him to reconsider,” he finished.

Morr laughed. “Are you actually that ignorant, to believe the Governor would consider what you have to say on this matter? Don’t you think he would have asked you if he wanted your input?” he said, watching Riya’s face turn red with embarrassment.

“Where along the lines did you forget what an order is? This plan is not open for negotiation, and has come from Commander Augustus’ office and the Governor. This is the mission—this is your mission. And you will accept it.” Morr paused and turned to look at Riya directly.

“You would be best to learn your place as a Knight, Riya. You aren’t a politician. You’re a soldier. The faster you learn that, the better or you’ll face the consequences,” Morr concluded, turning back to the hologram.

Riya sat back down in his chair silently, furious at the threat his superior had just thrown at him in front of his fellow Knights. And the fact Morr called him by his name without referring to his rank made him boil inside. One of the first things a Knight learned in the academy was the formal way of conversation. He didn’t speak like a stiff robot because he enjoyed it; he did so because he was taught to.

If he was a younger man he would have struck Morr in the jaw, but he was old enough to know his place and what he could get away with. Even Riya knew when enough was enough, and today he had crossed a line he hadn’t been fully prepared to cross.

Satisfied, Morr turned back to the rest of his men. “I presume the rest of you don’t have any questions. Correct?” he asked, shuffling a few pieces of loose paper and raising a brow before proceeding, to avoid any further disruptions. “Okay then. Your team leaders will brief you in several hours. This mission is a green light. We’re heading out, once we gear up and get briefed. That is all, men; you’re dismissed. Good luck, and kill me some damn TDU.”

“Dark Horses!” the men yelled in unison, standing and filtering out of the room.

Morr watched them leave, keeping an eye on Riya, who flashed him a quick glance. If it were up to him Riya would be pulled from the mission, but he was a Dark Horse and even Morr had to admit they needed him, especially with his experience in the tunnels. Morr put his glasses back on and watched the hologram slim and slip back into its small black home.

He gritted his teeth and thought back to what Riya said, about the horrors in the tunnels. The man was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. The tunnels contained unthinkable terrors, and it wasn’t just the TDU hiding in the darkness. Deep down, Morr knew Riya was right; many of the Dark Horses would not be making it home from this mission.

The Council of Royal Knight Headquarters was a monstrosity, reminding Riya of the medieval fortresses he saw in pictures as a child. It was in many ways a model castle; fortified and reinforced with concrete, rebar, and more concrete and rebar. It was, more than anything, a creation of intimidation, with its nine stories of gray concrete walls lined with cannons, machine guns, and rocket launchers. If there was any structure that confirmed the reality of the revolution, this building was it.

The outside of the headquarters was lined with three perimeters of barbed wire fences and stone walls bordered by buried land minds. The only way into the building was through a series of three checkpoints staffed by several Knights. Even the road was blocked off for three miles, to prevent any vehicles from entering the premises with bombs or other explosive devices. The headquarters were impregnable.

Riya quickly made his way through the white courtyard in front of the headquarters. He saluted a marble statue engraved with every fallen Knight’s name. The monument was beautiful, with a waterfall running down the names and collecting in a pool below, where civilians and Knights would leave flower petals, notes, and other tributes. Saluting this monument was a tradition that Riya followed since the day he became a Knight.

Riya dropped his salute and continued through the courtyard, nodding at two Knights guarding the front door.

The powerful aroma of bleach immediately entered his nostrils as he walked through the front doors. Not even the air filtration system built into his helmet could remove the smell. It was simply too potent. He didn’t mind, though; the glistening stone walls of the lobby were an acceptable trade off.

The interior of the building was not much different than the exterior. It wasn’t built for its aesthetically pleasing features. The surface and walls of the lobby were almost completely bare; no art work, fountains or colorful flower designs would be seen here. A single portrait of Commander Augustus was the only item hanging above the oval stone receptionist’s desk. The ceiling in the lobby extended nine stories high. At the top, the burning flame symbol of Tisaia was stenciled into the stone.

Riya hustled through the lobby, nodding at another two guards manning the front desk. He had been a Knight since Tisaia’s conception, and served her loyally ever since. Well, for the most part, but even he had his limits. His main grievance was the immigration situation, which seemed to be getting progressively worse. There were just too many people who had survived the Biomass Wars living in the Wastelands. He had voiced his opinion carefully on this matter in the past, butting heads with Sonii, the Governor’s Chief of Staff. This was more than likely the reason he was not consulted on the reopening of Project 1200.

Riya opened a door at the end of the lobby, slowly making his way down to the gymnasium. He had seen the stockpiles of food and Biomass, and he knew better than any politician there was plenty available to help the immigrants and those outside the walls. Sure, housing would be a problem, but the immigrant camps would be a perfect place to put refugees.

When Riya was first out of the academy, he was assigned to one of the early immigrant camps. It was there his empathy began, and the feelings had only grown over time.

He shook his head. Politics gave him a headache, and had since he was in the academy. At the bottom of the stairwell two more Knights stood guarding the double doors. As he approached they swung the doors open, the bright white glare of the ceiling lights blinding him momentarily.

The gymnasium was the only place large enough for all of the Knights assigned to Project 1200 to meet. At least that’s what Commander Augustus and Supreme Knight Morr had decided. Neither of these men was present, having felt their expectations for the mission to be clear. They left the team leads in charge of handing out assignments to the Knights.

Riya removed his helmet and shuffled through the crowd of Knights, fidgeting with his sword so he didn’t run into anyone. In the corner of the room he saw Lupa, one of his best friends and closest squad mates. Lupa was also middle aged, with far less hair. His face was lightly bearded and defined by a large nose that had been broken on several occasions. This resulted in much teasing, his fellow Knights claiming Lupa was an immigrant himself.

Riya nudged Lupa in his armored shoulder. “Where do you think they’re going to send us?” he said, with a grin.

Lupa shrugged. “Wherever it’s, it probably isn’t going to be good. Honestly though, I’d rather get assigned to the tunnels. They’ve always fascinated me.”

Riya laughed. “These tunnels are not the fascinating type, my friend. Whatever I tell you will not prepare you for what we see if we’re assigned there.”

“Knights, please line up by squad,” Jeriche yelled over the crowd. “I’ll keep this really short. As you already know, Commander Augustus has reopened Project 1200 to be led by the Dark Horses. Most of you will be assigned to the tunnels, while a few teams will be attached to Knight squads protecting the trolley stations. Expect to be deployed in phases during the next twenty-four hours. Your team leaders have your assignments,” Jeriche concluded, heading towards the exit. Commotion broke out in the silent gymnasium as Knights searched for their teams.

Riya watched Albri, the commander of his unit, walk through the crowd. Within seconds Albri was standing in front of his men.

“We’ve been assigned to a tunnel area under the western wall of Tisaia’s border. We move out in four hours, so I’d suggest you do a gear check, load up on ammo and catch an hour or so of sleep. Let’s get moving guys,” Albri said in his typical lighthearted voice.

He had hardly finished giving his orders before he was moving, leading the squad out of the gymnasium. As they made their way into the stairs leading to the surface, Lupa turned to Riya.

“Are the tunnels really that bad?” he asked, scratching his receding hairline.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say,” Lupa replied.