by J. L. Lyon
“You’ve seen my file.”
“Bright too, apparently.”
The lieutenant, whose designation was indeed 301-14-A, couldn’t think for the life of him why a rebel group would single him out for recruitment. He had excelled faster than most, it was true, but there were others whose files looked just as exemplary—until now. This would shatter everything for him. Returning without proof of mission success had been perilous enough, but to lose his entire squad? If the rebels allowed him to live, the general of the Fourteenth Army would not be so kind.
“Make your case, rebel,” 301 said.
“Very well,” the commander nodded. “The MWR doesn’t look kindly on failure…and regardless of where fault really lies, blame for this incident will fall squarely on your shoulders. Return to the World System and yes, you will likely be executed.” He paused, watching 301 closely. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. Your knowledge and talents would serve you well enough to survive on your own for a time…and perhaps later to fight against the regime that has brought so much suffering to our world. I can offer you a place within our ranks, 301. Take it, and you may live.”
301 mulled over the commander’s words for a moment, and then let out a loud stream of laughter, “Don’t even make me waste my breath on an answer. I’d rather die than betray the World System.”
“Death is likely what you choose, young man. This may be your last chance to escape it and the terrible destiny that will follow.”
“I am an officer of the World System,” he spat. “And I gladly choose death over treason.”
The commander shook his head, “The pride of a System machine knows no bounds. If that is indeed the fate of your choosing…I will say no more.” He tucked the gun under his arm and reached in his pocket, “Perhaps, then, you will be kind enough to deliver this to your superiors and instruct them to give it to the MWR.”
301 inspected the object as the commander set it on the floor before him. It was an insignia patch—the very same worn and tattered cloth that each of the rebels wore over their chests. Upon closer examination 301 saw that it was a simplified image of the weapons with two rays of light emanating from the sides of the blade.
“What makes you think this piece of trash will ever make it into the presence of the MWR?” he asked.
“That is the message your men died to send,” the commander replied. “We had planned to just leave it here if you agreed to join us, but since you’re determined to walk into the jaws of death you might as well take this with you.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you return to your base empty-handed. You waltzed right into our trap and now all your men are dead. Perhaps with this you’ll have something to show for it.” The rebel commander placed the emptied sidearm back on the ground in front of the insignia patch, “I’ll leave it up to you.” He turned to his men. “Move out. Disperse and regroup at the rendezvous point.” The rebels did as ordered, leaving 301 in the room alone with the commander.
“Who shall I tell the MWR the message is from?”
He smirked, “He will know.” The commander turned to leave. Seeing his chance, 301 reached out for the gun and with his unwounded hand took careful aim at his foe. He pulled the trigger, propelling the final bullet from the nose of the weapon.
In one graceful motion the rebel commander turned and raised his glowing white blade into the trajectory of the bullet. It disintegrated on impact. “The chamber,” the commander mused. “I always forget about that one.” He turned back around and disappeared into the night.
301 slumped back down on the floor, defeated. That had been his last hope for survival.
2
FRESHLY SHINED BLACK military boots pounded hurriedly on the red velvet carpet. Guards and soldiers moved out of the way as though dodging a freight train, for standing in the path of this man was just as dangerous. Clad in robes of royalty, his floor-length cape rose behind as though carried by the wind as he rushed toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
In his haste he took a small pea-sized device from his pocket and placed it in his ear. “Central Command,” he spoke harshly. There was a brief pause before he continued, “This is Chief Advisor Scott Sullivan, Premier of the Ruling Council—authorization seven-six-nine-eight-four. I am issuing an order for the emergency assembly of the Ruling Council. I want them all here within the next seven hours—you may pass along my apathy at any inconvenience this may cause. Failure to appear will be considered an act of treason.” Sullivan removed the device from his ear and stepped into the elevator, turning to face the hallway as the sterling doors closed.
“Specify floor,” an automated voice commanded.
“Crown 121.”
“Authorization—”
“Scott Sullivan, Chief Advisor of War.”
“Access approved.”
The Premier tapped his foot impatiently as the elevator began to rise. His mind raced with theories and propositions of how to combat this threat—new and yet old at the same time. One solution stood out above the rest, but the MWR would almost certainly never allow it.
The elevator doors parted and Sullivan stepped out into the hallway. He headed to the right and continued on until two large golden doors loomed in front of him. Four soldiers stood guard outside, weapons ready.
“Premier Sullivan,” one of them spoke warily. “We have been told that the MWR is not to be disturbed at this time.”
The Premier didn’t lose a step, “We have an urgent matter of world security, Sergeant. I suggest you stand down, unless you and your family wish to appear before the Ruling Council for judgment.”
Sullivan brushed past the sergeant and thrust open the doors to the office and quarters of Napoleon Alexander, the supreme ruler of the world.
-X-
“You know how these things go, soldier…losing your squad to a group of rebels is unforgivable.”
301 nodded. He had thought of nothing else during the long and lonely walk back to base the previous night. Doubtless he would end up facing the firing squad, but Major General Wilde wanted to wait until all the fine points were observed. “So,” 301 said, “I am reporting for execution, then.”
“That was the plan, originally,” the major general replied. “But we’ve just received new orders. You are to be stripped of your rank and your class status, effective immediately. After surrendering your rank pin and weapons, a helicopter will take you to the palace where you have been called to testify.”
A brief hesitation followed this announcement, as 301 wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “The palace, sir?”
“From this point on you will be referred to by your numeric designation,” Wilde went on. “The Ruling Council will decide your fate.”
Breathtaken, 301 could only whisper, “The Ruling Council?”
“Yes,” the major general answered. “These orders come straight from Premier Sullivan. You will testify to what you have seen at an emergency assembly of the Ruling Council at noon. Pending their assessment of the situation, you will be tried and judged. They tell me that the MWR himself will also be in attendance at this meeting.”
301 felt lightheaded, and in the back of his mind he heard a small voice urging him to flee. Let them shoot him in the back—it had to be better than what was coming! A summons to the Council was a worse fate than death. If his testimony angered the Premier or the MWR, they could subject him to pains he had never imagined. He struggled to correct his breathing, which he noticed had become irregular.
“Your rank pin and weapons, citizen,” Wilde said, bringing 301 back to his senses.
With great care he pulled the silver rank pin from his collar and placed it in the major general’s palm, relinquishing the symbol of his position in shame. He surrendered his weapons, including the Council-issued firearm, which Wilde took greedily. 301 suspected that the major general had already made plans to sell the sidearm to the highest bidder.
&nb
sp; And just like that, his exemplary career in the Great Army was over.
Without another word to the major general, 301 proceeded in the direction of the landing zones, downcast with the knowledge that he would never return. He looked back briefly as Wilde called after him with ill-humored contempt, “Savor the sunrise, 301. I fear it will be the last one you ever see.”
-X-
Sullivan stood still, hands held respectfully behind his back, as the golden doors snapped shut behind him. The MWR sat behind his desk, chair turned toward his wide window and the panoramic view of Alexandria visible beyond the glass. Sullivan lifted his eyes briefly to the skyline. Truly, the capital and heart of the World System was a wonder to behold: a vast urban domain, a city-state in the true meaning of the term, larger than many countries in the Old World.
“By all means, Premier, come in,” the MWR said sarcastically as he swiveled his chair to face Sullivan. “I hope this is not about the rumors coming in from the Wilderness Sector. I’ve heard quite enough as it is.”
“Sir,” Sullivan began. “The situation is—”
“Hardly dire enough to wake me in the middle of the night,” the MWR interrupted. “My days are busy enough as it is without you and General Brooks interrupting my nights as well. You would think we didn’t have procedures in place to deal with these issues.”
“I apologize for interrupting your rest,” Sullivan said with trace impatience. “But information has come to light that paints the incident in a more…threatening light.”
“This had better be good.”
Sullivan took a deep breath and began, “Last night at approximately twenty-two hundred, the Fourteenth Army command tower dispatched an execution squad led by Lieutenant 301-14-A to the Wilderness Sector, based on intelligence that General E. C. Crenshaw had been sighted along the border of the city. Upon arrival the team realized too late that they had been lured into a trap. Only the lieutenant survived—”
“A detail that I’m sure has been rectified.”
“I took the liberty of delaying that action until the situation can be reviewed,” Sullivan said. “To execute our only witness before gaining adequate knowledge of this event would be—”
“Foolish?” the MWR stood, his voice deepening into a tone of challenge.
But Sullivan would not be cowed into silence. He dropped his attentive stance and looked the MWR in the eye, “With respect, sir, if you allow me to finish I am certain you will agree.”
“Out with it then, old man!” the MWR ordered. “And spare me the fine points.”
“Very well,” Sullivan stepped forward and reached into his pocket. The MWR flinched as though the Premier meant to draw a weapon, but relaxed when Sullivan pulled out a small piece of cloth and tossed it onto the desk.
As he took in the familiar shape of the insignia patch between them, the MWR’s smug expression faded and gave way to a grim anger. Deciding he should hit the MWR with all the information at once rather than let it build, Sullivan went on, “The attackers were carrying weapons that the lieutenant had never actually seen before, but recognized from his studies. He described them as swords on fire with white light.”
“The Spectral Gladius.”
Sullivan nodded, “It would appear so. That would explain why none of the rebels were killed. For the past decade our defensive training techniques have not included countermeasures against the Gladius. Those soldiers didn’t have a chance.”
The MWR turned back toward the window to mask his mounting emotion. Sullivan thought it wise to remain silent until the MWR spoke again. “I know what you’re thinking, Premier…but you’re mistaken. It’s not possible.”
“We cannot afford to be wrong about this, sir,” Sullivan insisted. “At least allow the Ruling Council to review the situation. If it is found that—”
The MWR faced him again and raised a hand for silence, “Given the situation, perhaps a meeting of the Council would do us service. Do what you will in this matter, but when you are done with the lieutenant—our laws are clear—he must be executed.”
“Understood, sir,” Sullivan replied.
“Good.” The MWR sighed and set an angry glare on the insignia patch. “Where is the soldier now?”
“On his way here, sir.”
“You summoned him to the palace without my permission?”
The corners of the Premier’s mouth turned slightly upward in a barely noticeable smile, “I had a feeling you would want him here.”
“Have you taken any other actions I should know about, Premier?”
“I have ordered an emergency assembly of the Ruling Council to convene in the Hall of Advisors at noon,” he answered. “They will begin arriving at the palace within the hour. We will address this issue and decide what must be done in response.”
“If indeed there is an issue,” the MWR said darkly. “You have taken several liberties today without my consent, Premier Sullivan. I hope you have not forgotten your place in the World System.”
“I am the head of the Ruling Council, sir.”
“A position we both know to be more symbolic than substantive.” The MWR moved slowly around his desk to stand directly in front of the Premier. “Your power, broad as it may seem, exists only as I delegate it. So, we will let this incident slide for now, as no harm has been done.” He leaned in closely and whispered in Sullivan’s ear, “But if you overstep your position in the system of command again, there will be severe consequences.”
Sullivan’s eyes flashed with anger, but he merely nodded.
The MWR walked back around his desk and sat down. “What time will the soldier arrive?”
“Sunrise.”
“Excellent. Go up to the landing pad and wait for him. Then bring him here.”
“Here?” Sullivan asked.
“Yes, here. I will interview him before the rest of the Council arrives, just to make sure I am not caught off-guard by anything in his report. Inform the others that I most certainly will be in attendance for this meeting. Dismissed, Premier.”
Premier Sullivan bowed his head reluctantly and left the room. Looking out a window toward the east, he saw that the first traces of light had already crept onto the horizon. Soon the day would be set in motion, and hopefully his plans along with it.
-X-
The palace of the MWR grew dark and ominous in the distance. As light from the sun began to dominate the eastern sky, shadows of the night gave way to morning. Yet the palace seemed to retain its aura of darkness, as though some unseen entity cast a shadow upon it.
Napoleon Alexander took great pride in the royal structure. Once seen it could never be forgotten, for it was a wonder of architecture such as had never been seen in the world before. From above it looked like a slightly deformed letter X, after which the insignia of the World System had been modeled.
A blend of modern and ancient forms, the palace incorporated five very different buildings into a single structure, spanning a distance of over half a mile from end to end. To the west, a massive gothic-style cathedral; to the north, a golden-domed mosque; to the east, a Buddhist temple painted in alternating colors of black and brilliant red; and to the south, a gleaming tower of gold and silver that shone like a beacon in the growing light of the morning.
In the very center of those buildings rose a column of stone taller than them all, plainly meant to overshadow them in symbolic fashion, and it was there that Napoleon Alexander himself resided. Large black spikes curved downward from the flat top of the pillar in a cruel mockery of a flower, completing the intended effect to strike fear into all who beheld it. Truly it was an unsettling sight, but for 301 the apprehension delved even deeper.
He knew from his training as an officer that each ‘arm’ of the palace housed an armory, within which an arsenal of weapons unlike anything else on the planet was kept. Any army trying to attack by land or air would literally be cut to shreds before coming within a hundred yards of the pal
ace. Not the most comforting thought, as their path took them right by the western armory.
To top off the palace’s security, a defense ring of twenty guard posts ran around the main structure. Each post contained its own powerful weapons, though the real threat of the defense ring was the soldiers. Hundreds of them patrolled the entire area daily, making the palace of the MWR the most heavily guarded building in the history of the world.
The helicopter touched down on top of the stone pillar, and 301 took a deep breath. This was it. After all the narrow escapes, after all the training and striving and peril, death had finally caught up with him. Here at the hands of the Ruling Council, he would meet his end.
A rush of wind hit his face as the helicopter door opened and he stepped out onto the landing pad. An older man dressed in royal black robes waited by the entrance, his cape flapping furiously in the air behind him. Rows of soldiers flanked him on both sides, all of whom grew tense as 301 approached—he was not to be received as a guest, it appeared.
301 stood at attention as the man yelled over the whirring blades, “I am Premier Scott Sullivan, the Chief Advisor of War! Is your designation 301-14-A?”
He nodded.
“Good! You must follow me, now!”
3
301 FOLLOWED THE PREMIER at a distance into the red-carpeted hallways of Napoleon Alexander’s palace, head hung low in acceptance of his fate. Stripped of his weapons and rank, he was now a mere citizen, a peasant without honor or worth.
The soldiers walked diagonally from him—two in front and two behind—in case he made an attempt at escape. But 301 was no fool. He had gone over all the scenarios in his mind, and each promised only failure. Even if he could escape the palace, where would he go? If he managed to flee Alexandria, what then? There was no sanctuary from the World System.
