The Daughter Warrior Read online

  If anyone had conducted a poll, most citizens of the American Empire would say the king and queen loved each other. In public appearances they often held hands and were affectionate. It was all a show. The reality was, after fifteen plus years as joint rulers, the two could barely stand to be in the same room with each other.

  Their attempt to destroy the BL rebels with sarin gas bombs failed miserably when the rebels destroyed the fleet of military jets refueling in San Antonio before their scheduled bombing run to Mexico City. What neither of them knew, Dr. Argus Delis, the reluctant scientist who developed the sarin gas, was now working with the rebels.

  As far as the rulers knew, Delis was killed in the explosion that destroyed the gas and the jets. But he was carefully hidden, working with Dr. Herbert Schneider on a wide range of interesting projects for the BL rebels in Mexico City. The rebels had reunited the scientist with his beloved partner, Rachel, hidden away in a safe house after the rebels faked her death.

  Within a year of making themselves monarchs of the American Empire, the rulers were forced to deal with the frequent riots from starving citizens. The queen’s favorite spy, Mannford Spencer, took charge of setting up feeding stations after he discovered a huge cache of stored food north of Chicago.

  The food supply ran out years ago, and food production in the massive farm domes of the Chicago province had almost come to a complete halt because of damaged and unrepaired domes. The province was so cold nine months out of the year, growing crops outside the domes was a futile effort.

  The rulers isolated themselves in the imperial glass pyramid in Boston, their headquarters. They were fed and clothed and cared nothing for their starving citizens. They relied on the queen’s spy network and thousands of vid-cams across the country to keep them informed on what was going on.

  The BL rebels continued to harass the rulers and their military forces. Using guerrilla tactics, the outmanned and outgunned rebels harassed and struck whenever they found marines away from their bases.

  For the last couple of years, the rulers’ spies had tried many times to infiltrate the rebels, but with limited success. Too often the spies either joined the rebels as supporters, or they were easily identified and suffered the BL punishment of any traitor: having their tongues removed and B-chips implanted.

  There were still a few wealthy families left in metropolitan areas. But, they did their best to maintain low profiles to prevent any attempt by the rulers to steal their wealth. Compounds where they lived were isolated and secure. Mercenaries from hobo gangs were well paid to keep the poor and criminal elements away from their well-hidden estates. In many cases, their wealth forced them to be prisoners in their own homes.

  After multiple failed attempts to infiltrate some of the wealthier estates, the rulers shrugged their shoulders and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  The king kept busy making sure his marines were properly trained. The mandatory two-year military service for men and women when they reached the age of eighteen kept the ranks full. Anyone who chose not to serve was either implanted with a B-chip to make then docile, or they fled to rural areas, often joining the BL rebels.

  When they first came into power, the king oversaw the military and infrastructure upkeep, like the extensive rail system. The queen agreed to take care of things like propaganda and citizens social and health needs.

  But over time and several assassination attempts, the two rarely left the pyramid. They relied on technology for communication and information. Like their wealthy citizens, the rulers became prisoners of their success.

  Today, the two indifferent rulers were playing a game of vid-bridge, using a large hologram to chart their moves and scores. The king just lost a second game and the queen could tell he was getting frustrated. She lazily stretched her long legs, the filmy caftan revealing much.

  “What’s the matter, kingee?” she asked, a cruel smile crossing her thin face. “Don’t like to lose?”

  “Oh, shut up,” he replied with a scowl. “I don’t know how but I’m guessing you are cheating.”

  Before they could get into a big fight over the incident, a chime indicated one of the sentries needed to talk to them.

  “What do you want?” the king yelled through the open door. He was a bit claustrophobic and always kept the massive doors to their suite left open. A laser fence across the doors prevented unwanted visitors.

  Major Andrew Diehl was waiting at the door, visible through the laser fence. The son of Dr. Argus Diehl, the chemist who failed at delivering the deadly sarin gas to destroy the rebels in Mexico City, Andrew had served quietly and efficiently as the head of pyramid security for more than ten years. Today he was taking his shift in front of the royal apartments. When asked why he didn’t leave the duty to his subordinates, he replied he wanted to periodically make sure himself the security was working correctly.

  Andrew was a tall, handsome soldier with a square, chiseled jaw and dark brown hair. His muscular body was evidence of his daily workouts. It was his good looks which seemed to create frequent difficulties with the queen and her not so subtle attempts to seduce him. So far, he had managed to stay out of her clutches.

  “Your Majesty, you have a communication from General Sinclair,” the major replied quietly. “He did not want to disturb you, so he sent it to me first.”

  “Is it on a vid-com?” the King impatiently asked.

  “If you wish I will have it forwarded to your vid-com, Your Majesty.”

  With an impatient wave of his hand, the king agreed, and the major sent the message. Waving his hand across the console beside him, the message appeared as a hologram.

  General Maurice Sinclair, in full Marine dress, complete with medals, stood at attention. A short man, with a paunch and bald head, he had only been in the position as head of the marines for six months. The last general failed to deliver on an assignment and committed suicide rather than face the rulers’ anger. He began to speak.

  “Your Majesty, I am sorry to have to tell you, but the Book Liberator guerrillas infiltrated the marine base south of Austin City, killing or capturing all of the five hundred soldiers stationed there. Do you have any directions for me, sir?”

  The king exploded in rage. “You’re the general. What do you expect me to do? Get your butt in gear and figure out a way to attack their base in Mexico City. This is the last straw. There have been too many of these attacks and I won’t stand for it anymore!”

  “Sir, yes sir,” the now very pale general saluted and wisely cut off the transmission.

  “Well, kingee,” the queen drawled, “Whatcha gonna do now? We can’t afford to keep killing off all the generals when they screw up.”

  The king started pacing back and forth in front of the armor-plated glass encompassing the east wall of their suite and providing a stunning view of the Boston City harbor; a view they both seemed oblivious to. As was typical, the king wore a marine uniform covered in every medal known to the Corp. He did not care if he earned them, he just liked the way they looked on his uniform.

  “Well, if you’re so smart, what do you suggest?” he replied curtly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about I put my lovely spies on it. Major Spencer needs to show better results, or he will end up like your last general.”

  Somewhat mollified, the king stopped pacing. “How can the spies help? So far, they have been unable to successfully infiltrate the rebels. They either get caught and have their tongues cut out, or they end up joining the scum.”

  “I guess I should probably tell you,” the queen yawned in boredom.

  “Tell me what, witch.”

  “Hey, watch what you call me. That’s one name I don’t appreciate.” The queen’s face was flushed with anger, her eyes narrowed.

  “Okay, okay. Just tell me what you have been hiding from me and make it quick.”

  Quelling her anger, the queen stood, walked to the large conference table, and swept her hand over the console. A hologram appeared showi
ng the layout of the pyramid. She pointed to a spot in the southwest corner of the basement. The king sauntered over to get a closer look.

  “See that spot there? That’s where my talented spy master has been working to develop a new kind of spy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when the emperor tried to develop the cyborg army, but it was destroyed by rebels?”

  “Yeah, so get to the point.”

  “For the past year, Spencer and his team have been working on a new kind of spy; part cyborg but smaller than the ones the emperor developed, and more human-like in appearance. In my last conversation with him, he said they have developed a new chip, which I’ve decided to call the spy-chip, or S-chip. It contains all the knowledge and information on the I-chip, but it is also a B-chip. The chip can not only be adjusted to control the behavior of the spies, but the level of information they have is way beyond anything anyone else has implanted.”

  “How is that possible? I mean, I know all about I-chips, but how are they better than what most people have implanted?”

  “The S-chip also includes a lot of information and decision-making algorithms nowhere else available. The B-chip will keep the spies docile and controllable, but the S-chip also gives it super AI problem-solving knowledge.”

  For a minute the king was stunned. “And you haven’t told me about this before now, because?”

  The queen shrugged her bony shoulders. “I just didn’t think you needed to know until we were close to completing the project. And, by the way, Spencer has a remote he carries with him all the time, so he can kill any of the creatures who get out of hand or resist him.”

  A big grin split the king’s face. “Well done, my dear. That almost makes up for your cheating during the bridge game. When do we get to meet these super spies?”

  “Spencer thinks he should be ready for a test run with the first six of the spies sometime in the next couple of months. Apparently, there are still some bugs in their programming he wants to clear up first.”

  “Hey, let’s drink to Spencer’s success!”

  As the king and queen walked over to the large, ornate bar in their suite, they never gave a thought to the two marine sentries who heard everything. And one of those sentries was an undercover rebel spy.

  Chapter Three

  A Weary Rebel General

  General Juan Veracruz slumped into his desk chair. He was sure he was getting to old for this. He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes for just a moment. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until there was a loud door chime, letting him know he had a visitor. There were times his open-door policy was a pain.

  He groaned as he tried to rub the stiffness out of his neck. He straightened his uniform and hollered, “Come in.”

  His eyes widened in surprise as he saw his son, Mateo, at the door. He quickly moved around the fiberglass desk and grabbed the young man in a big embrace. They had not seen each other in almost a year. Mateo had been stationed with a rebel guerrilla force in the Chicago Province.

  Juan pushed Mateo away from to better look at him. “You are looking good, son. When did you get back?”

  “Just arrived, Papa. Oops, sorry, General.”

  He laughed and pulled him back into his arms. “The day you cannot call me Papa is the day I throw away these general’s stars, okay?”

  Mateo grinned and nodded.

  “Fill me in. How was your tour of duty? Challenging like you hoped? You have done a great job keeping me and your mama informed, but now it is time for us to talk soldier to soldier.”

  “Okay if I sit, Papa? It has been a long trip. Traveling by motorcycle has its disadvantage; one of them being uncomfortable.”

  “Tell me about it. These old bones don’t like it either. Let’s go sit on that old lumpy couch. It is still better than this hard-back chair.”

  The father and son sank into the couch and just looked at each other for a moment.

  “By the looks of the stripes on your sleeve, you are now a major. How did that happen?”

  “Aha, you didn’t think I could do it, did you?” Mateo said with a laugh.

  “I’m just surprised you aren’t a colonel by now,” Juan reciprocated.

  Mateo’s expression sobered. “The truth is, Papa, I didn’t want to become a major. I was quite happy doing repairs in the tank infantry as a sergeant. But about six months into my tour, we ran into a platoon of marines outside Moline and the guy who was our major got himself killed. I was next in line to take charge, so I did, hoping headquarters would get it sorted out and appoint someone else.” He shrugged.

  “For some reason they never got around to replacing me, so it wasn’t long before everyone was calling me Major, and then the higher ups gave me the stripes, too.”

  “I’m sure there was more to it than that. Knowing you, you probably did something stupidly heroic and that’s how you got the stripes.”

  “My lips are sealed, Papa.”

  The general laughed.

  “On a more sombre note, how are the troops doing? Any discontent or problems in the ranks?”

  “None that I’ve seen. Enthusiasm levels are high and when we call for volunteers for a mission we are overrun with rebels wanting to take part.”

  “Good to hear. Now to more personal information. Have you seen your mother yet?”

  “No, I wanted to see you first, maybe get cleaned up at the barracks and then go see her, if that’s okay?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, I’m sure Mamasita will have some of your favourite foods already in the gel freezer, just waiting to be prepared for you. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her. Go on, get yourself cleaned up. I’ll meet you at home at 1800 hours. How does that sound?”

  “Great, Papa. See you soon.”

  Juan watched fondly as his son smartly saluted, turned and walked out. His body had filled in, probably from working with the tanks. They were always breaking down, but Mateo had a knack for getting them running again. It was hard work, but it appeared to be keeping his son very fit. Mateo was the same height as the general, 5’8”, but much more muscular. His Hispanic heritage was evident with black hair and brown skin.

  When the general was a few years younger – before the grey hair – people often mistook them for brothers because they looked so much alike.

  He thought about if for a minute and realized just seeing his son gave him new energy. A few minutes before he had been asking himself why he was continuing in the job when there were better qualified people to do it. Now? Maybe he still had a few years left before he retired. He turned back to the stack of vid-messages he knew were in the queue and went to work.

  One of the first things he needed to do was review a request from the elite White Warriors. During the past decade, the special division of rebel warriors moved from direct combat to secretive guerrilla tactics behind enemy lines. Although there had been some successes, they were proposing a more lethal approach.

  General Juan never told anyone, but he envied Brogan’s formation of a peaceful clan of BL rebels to fight the rulers and stop the marines from taking more freedoms away from citizens. Although he was rarely involved anymore in direct combat, he knew he would never forget each enemy soldier he killed himself. Killing takes something good out of every person, he knew from experience. And that’s what worried him about the warriors’ proposal; it would mean more personalized warfare for the soldiers under his care.

  He sat back in his chair and remembered those he killed, something he tried to do at least once a day: the very young, boyish marine who tried to sneak up on him during the Missouri massacre, the spy who infiltrated the Mexico City headquarters and tried to assassinate him, and on and on for several minutes.

  A deep sigh concluded his contemplation of those he killed. Now he would be able to focus attention on the White Warrior proposal.

  Based on regular written reports from Brogan, and their successful development of a clandestine group to infilt
rate marine camps and the rulers’ pyramid, the elite squadron wanted to add some of her strategies.

  Young Emily was one of the first graduates of Brogan’s rigorous spy school in the Pacific Northwest, dubbed the WWS, or White Warrior Spies. Recruits for the school went through a series of gruelling tests before they were trained in things like disguises, use of everyday items for defensive weapons, and even psychological warfare.

  The Mexico City WWS took Brogan’s tactics and added lethal weapons’ training. Now they wanted to add more clandestine strategies behind enemy lines tactics. He wanted some objective advice before making the decision to approve the request.

  He missed Stephen Douglass. He had a level head and would have been able to thoughtfully consider the warriors’ proposal. His move to the northwest with his new wife and Brogan had been a big loss to the rebels in Mexico City.

  Juan’s father, Max, died last year, a result of some form of virulent cancer. From the time of diagnosis until his death was only a couple of weeks. Max had also been a great help to him from the beginning of the BL rebels. Juan had not yet found anyone else he could trust as much as his father, Stephen and Mateo.

  His mind went through a checklist of all the top-level people in the rebel camp. Not one person stood out as someone he felt comfortable enough with to discuss this. He felt like he had to always convey to the rebels and his officers a confidence he didn’t feel. But the truth was, he’d never been comfortable in his role as a general.

  A sudden ding on his solar watch reminded him Maria was expecting him for dinner. The problem could wait until tomorrow. Time with his family was more important.

  Chapter Four

  The Doctors are In

  The two doctors, one a physicist and the other a chemist, had been working well together as BL rebels for almost fifteen years. In many ways, they were opposites.