From "Ragnarok Conspiracy"; Part Two, Chapter 3

A draft chapter from my upcoming first novel Ragnarok Conspiracy. Note that this is still a work in progress and an unedited draft. All feedback is highly welcomed.

Part one of Ragnarok Conspiracy is written as a collection of flash fiction installments against a common backdrop, revealing little fragments of the geopolitical developments in the not so distance future.
In part two, we shortly revisit many of the characters from part one a number of years later and see how their lives touch each other.

If you are new to this series of posts, please consider reading part one as indexed here, and chapter one and two from part two.

In this chapter, John, who we first met in chapter two of part one as a young boy, has grown up and as a New-Zion agent and war veteran , has been sent on a critical mission.

If you enjoy reading this draft chapter, or if you have anything to contribute in terms of constructive criticism, please leave some feedback by commenting on this post.

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John
Morelos, Pacific Union for Patents & Royalties, April 7th 2042

As a puzzled John Bridgewater, through the screen of his computer-helmet, witnessed his drone formations plummet towards the earth, John remembered his dad's last moments, eight long years ago. A miniature quant-drone, only fractionally bigger and similar shaped to the little bananaquit bird that was so common to the islands, had blown a hole through his chest the size of a cricket ball. John remembered it all as if it was yesterday. Each time John recalled his father's death, his hatred for the quants grew. What kind of sick minds could devise such a killing device?

As John’s computer helmet went pitch dark, John snapped back to the present. His mind trying to make sense of the situation. "What the .. ? …."

"EMP!"

"Those blasted Ottomans!" After years of an uneasy ceasefire with the occasional skirmish between New-Zion and the quants, skirmishes that John always welcomed with open arms, things had now changed. While John had hated the idea of even a temporary cease fire as far as the Quants were concerned, he always drew comfort out of the realization that at least the South Atlantic GNU Defence Alliance and the New Ottoman Trade Alliance had continued the good fight. As an Agent, for John, the war had never really paused, always on tactical missions. If not chasing down "New Order" New-Babylon puppets, John had often spent his spare time as a volunteer in fighting with the GNU forces. John's commander had known but she understood his history so she had often turned a blind eye while John went off on his own private continuation of the war against PUPR.

How could he have failed so badly just now? His Agent training combined with his GNU forces war experiences had made John the only one for the job. At least for a job that involved fighting PUPR; fighting those Quants.
But John's fighting tactics had not adjusted to match yet, and this was the worst of times to come up short. The South Atlantic GNU Defence Alliance and the New Ottoman Free Trade Alliance had gone and signed a peace treaty. A peace treaty with those horrid quants! And now those blasted Ottomans had apparently gone and shared their Electromagnetic pulse battle tactics with the quants!

"Those bastards! Peace with these monsters?! Never! How could they?"

After what they had done to him, to his family, all that John really wanted now was to avenge his dad, but that had not been the true goal of his mission.

As John contemplated his failure, his mind jumped back to his dad. John senior had been a simple dock worker in Willemstad, Curacao. A hard working man without any interest whatsoever in politics. A simple and gentle soul. Not the war hero that John's mom, as well as the whole Ingless community on Curacao, had turned his dad into.

Pushing back his emotions, John quickly took off his computer helmet and disconnected himself from his now dead computer interfaces. The fact that his helmet had gone black could mean only one thing: The quants had located and taken out his supporting transceiver. They would know by now he would be located on this side of the mountain. It would be a matter of minutes before they would track his location.

Stumbling a few times John made his way out of his control-van. Quickly grabbing his wingsuit on his way out. He knew that without the protection of his drone army, he was a sitting duck up here. While John would gladly have given his life to stop the launch from happening, without his drones, without even a handgun, anything that he could now do is try for a strategic retreat. John's mission had not been about vengeance for his father. Well in a part for John it had been, but there was so much more at stake here. Their mission had failed, the other fractions were about to end the war at a terrible price that, for some reason, only New Zion fully comprehended.
Despite his own deep hatred for the quants, it was their quantum-computer slicing technology that allowed the world to finally see the centuries old Babylon conspiracy. It had shown that his Rastafarian granddad had not been the “crazy old fool” his mom had always claimed he was. Gramps, as it turned out, had been right all this time with his crazy rantings about Babylon. But John doubted Gramps would have had a real insight as to how deep Babylon went. Gramps had come to live with John's aunt a few years before everything had started. Before that, his mom claimed: "The old fool was living behind God's back since donkey years".
"Don't let the crazy old rasta cave-man put no silly ideas in your skull now son." his mom used to say. "I'll have no tech-phobic Babylon talk in this house now".

As a small rock came loose and John almost lost his grip on the cliff wall, John’s mind snapped back to the here and now. He was high enough now to make his escape. As John clambered a small protrusion and braced himself for his jump, he could not help but feel a deep and painful realization. He had failed. John had not just failed to avenge his dad. He had failed New Zion, no not just that, he had failed humanity.
As he jumped and he started his wingsuit descent, there was no fear, just hatred, and regret.
While John had made jumps like this in VR many times before, this was his first real jump. There should have been some anxiety but John felt none. All he felt was the shame, the regret and the hatred. Shame and regret for not having been able to stop the launch and hatred towards the quants and their new Ottoman allies.
This launch, this new weapon, it may end the war with the quants and incept a new peace; but at what price.
New Babylon may have fled to Mars-One, a rudimentary and small colony on Mars built to house only a quarter of the amount of people who ended up seeking refuge there, John knew that the world had not yet seen the last of these devils. The other fractions were grossly underestimating the nastiness and cunning of New Babylon.
New Babylon, John knew, were not rendered harmless. The growth of the New-Order movement showed just that.

They were plotting from up there right now. Plotting and scheming was their way of life. Ending the war like this would leave the planet vulnerable. As John activated his parachute and carefully landed in the reeds of a small forest lake, he realized there was a new and long struggle up ahead. A struggle to keep New Babylon from regaining control of Earth.