Sacremon (Harmony War Series Book 1) Read online

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Prologue

  Home for Youth, West Complex Three,

  Earth, Sol

  3/3127

  Mark looked to Tyler, his brother. They weren’t related by blood but they’d watched each other's backs for as long as they had been alive. When they turned eight they picked their last name, they’d both gone with Victor, cementing their brotherhood.

  Now a year later it was time they left their prison, otherwise known as the government funded home for youth.

  “Clear,” Mark said, his voice low, whispering was for amateurs, people were more likely to pick up on the hissing noises.

  Mark moved from his position, knowing Tyler was behind him, their steps were silent as they passed Marty Choi the night watchman. A small, but angry man. When you were twelve years old or younger, it didn’t matter if Marty was massive or small. He was still bigger than you and knew how to give a beating for being out of bed.

  Mark flowed through rooms, using the shadows as cover while they moved from the second floor down to the first, towards the kitchen.

  A light came on ahead. Mark and Tyler pressed underneath a cart to their side.

  Mark saw Tyler’s face, determined as his own.

  Marty came out of the kitchen, having fixed himself a sandwich he walked through the halls. He was tossing his baton carelessly between both hands, fiddling with the thing.

  Mark felt his chest tighten as Marty walked right down the hall Mark and Tyler were hiding in.

  Tyler squeezed Mark’s calf, signalling he’d back Mark’s play.

  Mark didn’t move, his breath catching as Marty passed their cart with a tuneless hum. His humming faded, his light doing so a few moments later.

  Mark moved his head a few inches, trying to watch where Marty had gone.

  The corridor was empty and Marty nowhere to be seen.

  “Let’s go,” Mark said his voice still low as he and Tyler got to their feet and continued on their route.

  They got to the kitchen, pulling rags over their mouths and rough goggles they’d made from food containers over their eyes.

  The goggles itched something fierce, and scratched the sides of their face, but for the next part they’d need it.

  Mark could feel his adrenaline spike as he walked to the delivery door where food was brought into the home.

  Mark saw the grin on Tyler’s face, feeling it on his own face.

  They tapped forearms, a gesture they only used with one another.

  Mark took a few breaths, looked to Tyler, getting the nod.

  He threw open the door, a siren went off as Tyler rushed out first and Mark rushed right behind him, out into the swirling rust clouds of Mother Earth.

  Mark and Tyler pumped their legs and ran fueled by adrenaline and desperation.

  They might be nine, but they had been in orphanages for their entire lives. The strong won and the weak lost. Whether the strong be the older kids, or the people running the orphanage who only cared about their credits. If a kid stepped out of line, a beating or going without food was the norm.

  You grew up fast in those walls; Mark and Tyler were done with it.

  They reached across the street, when they heard yelling. Marty had reached the delivery door.

  Too late, Mark thought as Tyler jumped onto one wall, and up to another wall, clambering onto the roof. Mark followed, they kept running.

  West Complex three was a mismatch of old buildings with shacks resting up against them and one another. The major color was rust red, the building’s bricks were made from rust dust, and anything that tried to have a different color quickly got covered in a thick homogenous coat.

  Neon signs showed where bars and flesh clubs lay.

  People shifted through the streets, covering against the dust storms that covered Earth.

  Mark and Tyler had only seen the city from a distance, now they ran over it, jumping from tin roofs to red dust formed patios.

  “I think we’re good,” Tyler said in a rush between breaths. They were inside what had been a parking garage; lean-to’s and flimsy shelters laid everywhere, cutting down the wind and dust.

  “Yeah,” Mark said, careful to not remove his rag. There was dust everywhere and breathing it in would just turn him into a coughing wreck.

  “What do we have here?” Someone said, slowly walking up on Tyler and Mark.

  There were three others with them. Goggles, masks and thick clothes hid their sex. It didn’t hide the makeshift blade in the talker’s hand.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Mark said, stepping up beside Tyler, they were both at least a foot and a half shorter than the shortest member of the group who was fanning out around the two.

  “Oh I do like you, the sex shops are going to love you,” the talker said, laughs came from the other three.

  Mark saw people moving away from the commotion, hiding in their tents, or turning their backs.

  It was all for yourself in the slums.

  Just like the orphanage, Mark thought.

  Mark and Tyler had put their noses into more than one altercation. They didn’t fight the adults, that would only get them a bigger beating and there were more adults. Once they got to a new orphanage they were known to put most bullies down, if they could.

  It had been a painful road, more than one broken bone proved that, but they had become decent fighters out of necessity.

  “Fox, Miller, grab them,” the talker said.

  Tyler and Mark looked to one another. Tyler held out his arm, Mark felt something dark and cold fill his body, determination and anger, he tapped Tyler’s arm with his own and they faced outwards, side by side.

  “Ohh, look at that, you have a little ritual, maybe they’ll keep you together to please the old men and women from mega city,” the talker laughed, it sent a shiver down Mark’s back.

  The shortest one, Fox, was coming towards Mark. His hands were out, reaching to grab Mark.

  At least I hope it’s a he.

  Mark let Fox grab him, he let Fox wrap him up.

  So that Mark could drive his knee into Fox’s groin. Fox’s hands quickly opened, bending over to grasp his grown.

  Yup, a man. Mark grabbed the man’s mask and goggles, dragging them down as he drove his fist into the man’s face. Fox’s nose crunched against his fist, blood pouring from his face.

  Fox stumbled, backwards, reaching into his clothes.

  Mark felt a new surge of adrenaline; he rushed Fox, grabbing his hand before he could pull it out. Slamming against him to jar Fox’s hand.

  Fox let out a gasp and Mark felt wetness around the blade.

  He pulled backwards, getting a cry from Fox.

  Fox coughed and then slumped down. Mark held a wet blade in his hand a pool was now forming under Fox’s body.

  Mark couldn’t focus on Fox, Tyler needed him.

  Tyler and Miller were in a tousle, the non-speaker was moving to join in.

  Mark was only a few feet from them; so he quickly closed the distance.

  Miller raised his hands, Tyler rolled away and Mark slammed his fist
into Miller’s temple, the fist with the blade.

  Miller pointedly froze, Mark pulled his hand back but Fox’s blade stayed in Miller’s head.

  “You’re going to pay for that, kill them Hume,” the speaker said.

  Hume didn’t look so confident now, glancing between Tyler and Mark. His eyes rested on Mark as if seeing him with new eyes.

  Mark was getting pissed off with the itchy damned goggles, their odd shape made it hard to see around the sides. If Hume figured that out there would be hell to pay.

  Hume seemed to make a decision and moved forward.

  A cracking sound echoed through the parking garage, Hume looked down to see a hole in his chest, he fell down dead instantly the shock still plainly on his face.

  Another crack and the speaker’s head disappeared, brains and gore flying everywhere as the body dropped.

  Five men walked forward, one of them holstering a pistol under his large black duster coat. On his arm there was a black patch with W3C stitched into it with faded white lettering.

  Mark turned to face the new threats, three moved to check behind them, the shooter stepped forward another standing next to him and watching for any signs of danger.

  Mark could see their organization and trust in one another. No one turned their back onto someone armed in the slums unless they trusted them.

  The shooter stood five feet from Mark and squatted down.

  Mark was ready to rush him if he needed, it would be futile, this man looked dangerous, but Tyler might have a chance.

  “Hello there, sorry about this mess.” The man waved to the four dead people as if it held little importance. “These four thought that they could start abducting people in our territory. Though it looks like you helped us out a fair bit with those two,” he shifted his chin to point at Fox and Miller.

  He seemed to wait, seeing if they said anything, sizing them up.

  “Well I’m Quentin Richter, leader of the Westerly Three Complex crew. What are your names?” He asked, looking to Mark and Tyler.

  “Tyler!” Tyler said. Damnit! Mark thought, he resisted the urge to glower at his younger brother. Never taking his eyes off this strange man.

  “Hello Tyler,” the man said. Mark could see the man’s mask move as he smiled, “And who are you?” He turned his gaze onto Mark.

  “Mark,” he sighed.

  “By your clothes you’re not part of a crew and the way you killed those two I’d say you’re from an orphanage, you look a little young, runaways?” Richter asked. Neither Tyler nor Mark said anything.

  “Strong silent types, I get it,” Richter said waving the conversation away.

  “Well if you want to join a crew, come to our compound and tell the people on watch your names.” Richter’s hand went in his duster but he moved it slowly. Mark tensed; Richter pulled four blades from inside his jacket, tossing two at Mark’s feet, the other’s at Tyler’s.

  Mark grabbed one, his eyes never leaving Richter.

  “If you want to learn how to use those, come and see me. Anything you take from these four are yours.” He looked to the bodies as if he were unaffected by their death.

  He stood and looked to Mark and Tyler.

  “I hope to see you soon,” He said, looking them over again before leaving.

  The other Westerly Three Complex crew fell in around him, their dusters whipping around in the rusty wind.

  Chapter 1

  West Complex Sector three Marketplace

  Earth, Sol System

  5/3136

  Mark moved through the market, his duster hiding his features and the armaments underneath his cloak. His duster bore the W3C patch of the Westerly-three-complex gang.

  People in the market moved out of his way as he scanned for threats. Four other gang member’s roved ahead of the main group with him.

  They were walking down what was once a three-lane road, either side was flanked with four or five story buildings in disrepair with graffiti covering them more than the original paint.

  Vendors set up in various pieces of junk that they had got into something resembling a stall. These all lined the streets. They were an amalgamation of air cars, air conditioning units, or even bricks made up of the red dust that covered Earth.

  In the distance the gleaming mega-towers of complex five could be seen disappearing into the red clouds of Earth.

  Everything was covered in red sand; Tyler said it was because so much metal had come through Earth that most of the sand had some kind of metal oxide or something.

  Mark knew that the red dust was bad for anyone that inhaled it for a long time, and that it got in damned well everything. He could already feel it under his head wrap and goggles.

  “In position,” Tyler's voice came through Mark's earpiece.

  “What took you so long? Taking in the sights of Red Street?” Mark said, his voice muffled by his face mask.

  “Well I had to see if the red cougar was in, Laurie is dancing tonight.” Tyler said without missing a beat.

  Mark sighed at his brother's antics. His eyes catching the furtive glances of a group of thirteen to seventeen year-olds.

  Too old for the orphanages, too young for Earth's Military Forces.

  “I've got five possibles in the alleyway three hundred meters to my right,” he muttered, hoping they'd just stay in the damned alley way.

  “Gotcha, I'm on them.” Tyler voice was all business for that statement. But he instantly reverted back to his casual conversation, “I don't see why the boss just lets people come to him; this walking around stuff puts him in danger.”

  Tyler and Mark had been through enough shit that this was nothing to write home about, well if they had a home, or a family other than each other.

  “The boss is the boss, we just listen and do,” Mark said, his eyes roving the stalls around him, he glanced back at the main group. There were twelve bodyguards around the boss who was talking to different stand owners before moving on. His bald head was covered in scars and what looked like gum spread across his skull. He looked as if he was twenty-five with deep blue eyes, though if one looked at those eyes long enough you would see the years that lay behind him.

  The boss was a veteran of the EMF; he had put down uprisings and been to other planets.

  Something caught Mark's eye. Five years of hard living in the slums had made Mark trust his gut feelings implicitly. Another group moved into place. In an alleyway to his right. Another group was spread across the vendor stalls to his front.

  They were looking at the stalls goods but not moving out of the gang’s way, instead they were glancing up at them, their eyes flickering in nervousness.

  Mark tapped a control on his arm, connecting him to Was, the security details leader.

  “I've got a group to my right and left trying to hide in alleyways about two hundred meters out. There are also a bunch of people among the stalls that are eyeing us, not getting out of the way and wearing clothing that could hide weapons.” Mark reported, not even slowing his pace as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the weapons under his duster touch against his body.

  Was opened the channel up to everyone in the security detail and the runners that were in the crowd.

  “Das Flo, Exinie, Oli, two hundred meters from forward elements, alleyways to right and left, get behind them and check it out.”

  “Loah, move through the vendors up front and see if any of the ones giving us eyes are packing.” Was said, no one in the security detail even paused. They had done this a number of times.

  Mark would have felt proud of their proficiency if his own anxiety wasn't making him move his fingers in anticipation.

  If they attack us, then the collateral is going to be high. He tried to push that thought from his mind but it was hard. These people were just trying to earn a living in the hard slums, and as per normal they were going to get fucked over by others with a modicum of more power than them.

  The way of Earth. He thought sourly, getting within a hundred
meters of the alleyway to his left and the group in the market.

  “The ones in the market are packing.” Loah reported back, her hands doing quick work as she tripped, touched and glided past the rival gang members. She was the gangs’ best pickpocket and was quickly relieving them of side arms or whatever she could.

  “Alleyway to the right, four possibles, looks like, they've got rifles.” Oli said, his voice pitch was still high because he hadn't hit puberty yet.

  “Mark, see about trying to piss them off,” Was said.

  “On it,” Mark sighed as he walked up towards one of the nearest possible rival gang members. He moved his arms, feeling the two blades that rested under them, close to his armpit.

  He was taller than most slum dwellers, standing at just under two meters, he still had a lot of filling out to do, but food was a prized commodity in the slums. He got more by being in a gang, but of course slum food was never going to fill his appetite.

  He pushed past the other possible gang member, the goggle and face-cloth wearing person went tumbling, barely staying on their feet.

  “The fuck was that for CEO-wannabe?” they demanded, coming back at Mark, trying to get a rise out of him. He couldn't see their eyes through their dusty goggles but he could see them tensing up, ready to fight.

  Just needs a little poke, Mark thought, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  “Get out of the way for a real man dirt dweller,” Mark's said with a voice full of scorn as he looked the man up and down in disgust.

  “The fuck did you call me you fucking WECK fuck?” The gang rival said. W3C's nickname was WECK; no street person would use it to their faces.

  The goggle wearer seemed to realize what they had said as their hands went to their belt.

  Marks' right hand lashed out to his side, his triceps flexing oddly as the smart cloth recognized the movement and released the blade that lay against his arm. He grabbed it with practised efficiency. The other gang member had just gotten to their blade when Mark grabbed their hair with his left hand, and drove his blade through their jaw and up into their brain with the efficiency of a factory machine. Blood covered his hand as he let the man fall, pulling his blade from their lifeless head in one swift motion.

  The suddenness of the move stunned more than one person as W3C dusters were pushed aside and weapons were pulled into the daylight. Vendors and market goers fled as the three gang members closest to Mark lay dead. Holes the size of a pop can in their chests.