Shadow Soldier (The Shadow Saga)

by J. L. Lyon

  He spoke with sympathy, “You have been chosen to participate in a special exercise. I regret to inform you that despite the Ruling Council’s objections, the MWR has ordered your summary termination. I am only sorry you must meet your end this way, as a spectacle to amuse a few old men. I hope, 301, that you are able to find some sort of peace on the other side of death.” He turned to join the others, but then thought better of it. He leaned in close to 301, “Your chances are slim, but I will help you all I can. When the MWR arrives—”

  “Now, now, Premier Sullivan,” Alexander’s voice broke in suddenly as he came into view. “No cheating! We must allow this little game to play itself out.”

  “Everything is prepared, Mighty World Ruler,” the Premier said. “All await your orders.”

  “My part is also done. The weapon has been placed.” Alexander motioned to the glass room, where Grand Admiral Donalson exited through the barely visible door. “If you please, 301…go inside and await further instructions.”

  301 had no choice but to obey. He entered through a door on the opposite side from where the Grand Admiral had been, and immediately found himself trapped in the cubed prison. Reflections of himself extended in every direction, and in an instant it was indeed as though he had left the real world behind.

  It took him a moment to gain his composure and stand up straight without feeling dizzy. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to prepare for whatever the government had devised to throw at him. If this proved to be his end, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  -X-

  Donalson paced up and down the line of soldiers and barked out his orders, “Gentlemen, as soldiers of the World System you must be ready to face any foe. The man standing in that room was once one of you, but because of his failure he has been stripped of all honor and sentenced to death. You have one mission: his execution. All of your weapons will be at your disposal, and make no mistake: if you fail, your fate will be no different than his. Show him no mercy. Do we understand one another?”

  “Yes, Grand Admiral, sir!” the soldiers answered in unison.

  “Do not enter until I give the command.”

  -X-

  301 noticed something else amidst the endless reflections aside from his own terrified stare. A cylindrical object lay on the floor at the center of the room, at first glance nothing more than the useless hilt of a bladeless sword. But 301 knew better. He strode to the center and bent to retrieve the black and silver device. It fell into his hand as though it belonged there, so surprisingly light that it felt like an extension of his arm.

  He studied the cylinder closely, beginning to suspect what the hierarchy had planned. The hilt widened into a conical shape near the top, and then curved inward to form a slight hollow. Along the rim of the hollow ran a ring of black squares, around which a dim white light continually cycled.

  The room’s loudspeaker crackled and came to life, “Greetings again, Shadow Soldier. This is the MWR. Your sentence has been determined to be…indefinite. In approximately one minute, the doors will open and twenty soldiers will enter, each with orders to end your life. For your defense, we have provided you with a single weapon…none other than the legendary blade itself: the Spectral Gladius. If you survive, clemency will be yours. Use it well.”

  He took a deep breath as his mind suddenly latched on to hope, however small. Clemency…could it be possible? He turned the weapon over and ran his thumb over the smooth glass dome at the bottom, where a red digital number appeared: 85. He supposed that meant the weapon was at eight-five percent power. But how could he activate it?

  He searched his memory for any clue that would help him. But in all his reading, all his knowledge—even his experience with them a few hours before—he couldn’t think of how to turn the thing on! Now that all rested on its presence at his side, he sorely wished he had spent more time studying it.

  -X-

  Napoleon Alexander walked over and stood next to Sullivan, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he looked upon the Shadow Soldier. “Are you angry, Premier?”

  Sullivan did not look at Alexander, but his eyes narrowed, “I fear you may later learn that two mistakes are being made this day. The first is to mar Specter’s return by constraining them beneath the Grand Admiral’s domineering hand. The second is executing a gifted officer of this System who may have gone on to do great things for us.”

  “The laws of the World System are like cast iron—”

  The Premier turned to Alexander, face flushed with barely concealed frustration, “Tell me, MWR: how do you expect to maintain control when you continuously execute your best men? That soldier was on our list to be a successor to the Ruling Council, perhaps even to your throne, and because of an incident in which he had no real control, we are going to end his life?”

  “The System is order, Premier,” Alexander replied. “And there is no room for exceptions. Only the strongest, most efficient survive. That is the way we have decided that the world should operate.”

  “Let me tell you the extent of our present operative state,” Sullivan countered. “In the past five years, nearly five percent of our forces have been depleted because of the Failure Execution Laws—perfectly capable servants killed by our own hands for nearly insignificant missteps. Men who—at the very worst—could have been ejected from the soldier program and made workers to bolster the infrastructure of our society.”

  “You sound like an Old World politician, Premier,” Alexander laughed. “I suppose it is difficult for you to shed your democratic roots, even after all this time. But know this: the leaders of the Old World once thought as you do. Now they are dead, their republics are fallen, and their ideas are but whispers from a distant past. The Wilderness Sector is a testament to the fact that not even our country could survive a true crisis. I leave Washington to decay so that all will remember how the United States—the supposed epitome of freedom—failed them miserably. Now the people exist for the benefit of the government—the weak for the strong.”

  “And what about our officers? Are their lives so insignificant that they are to be spent for our entertainment?”

  Alexander grinned, “You should have faith in your champion. After all, he might win.”

  “He is just one man—young and inexperienced—in an interrogation room designed to slow the mind with twenty heavily armed soldiers prepared to use any means necessary to kill him. The only weapon we have provided him with is one he has no idea how to use. With all due respect, Mighty World Ruler, your game of fate is a joke.”

  “If he survives, Specter will be reinstated and placed directly under your control,” Alexander said. “Everything in the world will be at your disposal.”

  “If he survives,” Sullivan echoed dismally.

  Alexander smiled, “Let us see how fate shall judge.” He put in his earphone and spoke, “Send them in.”

  7

  IN HIS DESPERATE ATTEMPT to discover how to activate the Spectral Gladius, 301 had forgotten to keep his mind centered. The endless reflections once again threw him off balance and made him dizzy. His eyes blurred, and for a moment he thought he might not be able to stand much longer.

  But then he saw a small figure just a few feet in front of him. He knew he had to be hallucinating, for there was no possible way the boy from the holding room had managed to make it to the Hall of Mirrors. Yet still, there was something comforting about his presence.

  He heard the boy whisper, “Go on…you know what to do. You remember, don’t you?”

  301 looked behind the boy to the mirror-wall, and saw no reflection. Knowing then that fear was likely leading him to create some mechanism of comfort to defend his sanity, he shut his eyes again. He could not allow such things to distract him now. Calm washed over him once again, and then he realized that his thumb had come to rest on a section of the hilt that had a different texture than the rest.

  The door clicked and he heard the shuffling of boots,
twenty pairs of them, as the soldiers who would end his life filed into the room. He turned toward them, eyes still closed, and took a few steps backward.

  A voice, powerful yet soothing, echoed the boy’s words: You know what to do.

  His eyes snapped open. There stood the soldiers, moving sluggishly to encircle him with their battle knives drawn. To them he looked like easy prey, but they did not know the power of the weapon at his side. Just like his men walking straight into that ambush, they couldn’t see any outcome but total victory.

  They would not get it.

  -X-

  Donalson chuckled as the soldiers began to pour into the Hall of Mirrors, staring their mark down like predators surveying prey. “Here we go.”

  The snide smile on the grand admiral’s face vanished as a two and a half foot blade shot out from the end of the device in the Shadow’s Soldier’s hand. The resounding shing made the chief advisors jump back in surprise, and stopped the advancing soldiers dead in their tracks. A thin shield of white light spread quickly over the surface of the blade.

  “That’s interesting,” Alexander whispered.

  “Luck!” Donalson insisted. “He’ll never get the chance to use it!”

  The Premier remained silent, refusing to take his eyes off the Shadow Soldier as he gracefully raised the Gladius into battle ready position as though he had done so thousands of times in his life.

  -X-

  The only sound in the room was the gentle hum of the Spectral Gladius. Even the breath of his opponents had been stilled, their confidence stolen away by the sight of the fiery blade. 301 could feel the weapon’s low vibrations—like holding the pure power of electricity in the palm of his hand. He stood still and ready, waiting for one of them to make the first move.

  One of the soldiers came at him head on and 301 reacted, his muscles surging with power. The glowing blade came down fast and hard, throwing the soldier’s body back violently against the others. The soldier toppled to the floor, dead before he landed. Those who remained looked down upon their fallen comrade in disbelief.

  And then the room erupted into chaos.

  They came at him simultaneously, hoping to use their numbers as an advantage. But the enclosed space worked to 301’s benefit, as the reach of his Gladius far outstripped that of the soldiers’ knives. One white arc threw down two men with one blow. Two sideways swings and one thrust neutralized four more, reducing the number of his enemies to thirteen.

  At last the soldiers thought to drop their knives in favor of their sidearms, and 301 knew he had to act quickly. He rolled out of the way of the first shot, burying the Gladius to the hilt in the flesh of the soldier who pulled the trigger. He pulled the blade from the dead man and launched into a 360-degree slash, killing three more. As the third man fell a bullet flew by his ear and impacted the bulletproof glass. He weaved skillfully between the soldiers, using their bodies as a shield against the shots that exploded all around him. Four more soldiers fell from friendly fire while a fifth and sixth died in a flash of fiery white light.

  Only three remained, but now the room was so filled with the smoke of gunfire that they could no longer tell friend from foe. 301 dispatched one with a quick thrust, though his attack allowed the remaining two to position themselves on either side of him. They raised their guns to his torso and began firing. 301 dropped to one knee, extending the Gladius out in front of him in what was known as the Spectral salute. The first wave of bullets missed him, but he knew then that he was a goner. All it would take was a second for them to adjust their aim, and it would be over. He might be able to take out one, but not the other.

  He rose up and struck the soldier to his right, fully expecting to feel the impact of bullets in his flesh from his final adversary. But instead, he heard the click of an empty magazine. He turned to face the last man, who dropped his useless weapon and redrew his knife. In a last ditch attempt to complete the mission, he charged.

  301 moved calmly aside and let the soldier walk right into his blade.

  The Gladius withdrew from its victim, and the final soldier’s lifeless body fell to the floor. Once again, the only sound in the room was the hum of the Spectral Gladius.

  -X-

  The leaders of the World System stood frozen in place. All eyes stared in amazement at the soldier holding the Spectral Gladius, the last man standing in the room—the very one they had expected to die.

  “Game of fate, indeed,” Chief Holt whispered.

  “Mighty World Ruler,” Premier Sullivan spoke, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to the MWR, “Per our agreement, Specter can now be reinstated and placed under the supervision of the Ruling Council. On this paper are ten names of active duty personnel that I have selected for the force. I would like them to be gathered here for training immediately.”

  Alexander, barely able to compose himself after what they had just seen, replied, “Indeed you did win our wager, Premier. However, I did not say that you could unilaterally select the members who will make up Specter First Class. From this list, you will select your five favorites. I shall also choose five, beginning with that man in there.”

  “Very well,” Sullivan agreed. “He has proven himself worthy, after all.”

  “See to it that 301-14-A is cleared of all charges,” Alexander announced to all those present. “And by executive order of the MWR of the World System, I hereby promote him to the rank of Specter Captain. On my word he shall be the first and highest-ranking member of the reinstated force.”

  Sullivan gave a respectful nod, “It will be done, sir.”

  “And after all the champions have gathered,” the MWR continued. “We will have a great celebration in honor of Specter’s return. Nothing should be spared in welcoming the trainees into their new royal roles. And you, Grand Admiral,” Alexander turned toward him with a smile. “To show there are no hard feelings for losing this little game of ours, I have a task for you.”

  “Anything, sir,” Donalson said.

  “On the night of the celebration you will present the Shadow Soldier with a gift befitting one of his exalted status. The substance and procurement of this gift I leave to you, but you will spare no effort to see this done.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Get him out of there,” Alexander ordered the guards. “And show him to one of the guest suites of the palace.”

  8

  THOUSANDS OF MILES from Alexandria, in a city whose legacy stretched back beyond the reach of history, an old church stood in what was once one of the most traveled-to places in the world. In the days of the Old World this city-within-a-city represented the heart of Christendom on earth, and gave residence to the man who held the ancient office of the Pope.

  Despite multiple wars and the passage of time, Saint Peter’s Basilica remained a stunning sight to behold. A magnificent square and colonnade led up to the massive church, the focal point of which was a huge green dome designed by the ancient artist Michelangelo. Below the great structure were stairs that led up to a columned front, and in the very center of the colonnade there rose an obelisk. Two long buildings extended outward on either side of the colonnade like arms welcoming visitors—or perhaps threatening to trap them inside, depending on if those within were friend or foe.

  Long had this building been a symbol of the former Roman Catholic Church, and a prime destination for all who desired to look upon the architectural marvel. Said to be built over the remains of the Apostle Peter, its worth was at once historical, wondrous, and spiritual—but even legacies as great as that could not endure upon the earth forever.

  After many centuries of operation, the Roman Catholic Church was dead. Rome had been one of the first European cities taken in the Persian invasions at the end of the last century, and though the basilica was left intact, the Pope who dwelt within was not so lucky. Afterward, the religion died a slow death. Over time the followers had found it difficult to sur
vive in the face of persecutions: first in the short domination of the Persians, then in the feudal age that followed their demise, and at last from the World System, which forbade religious practice of any kind. Those who did remain loyal were hunted down and killed, nearly into extinction.

  Since that time the World System had appropriated the old church for use as the capitol and operations center for Division Nine—until eighteen months ago, when a resistance force under the command of rebel Charles Aurelius Justus attacked and took the basilica for their own, beginning a war in the city of Rome dubbed Domination Crisis Fifteen.

  Over a period of a year and a half the Romans had fought bravely, but they could not hope to overcome the superior force of the Great Army. Now trapped to a man inside the ancient church, it would be within that once powerful symbol that the Roman rebellion would make its final stand.

  Domination Crisis Fifteen would soon be at an end.

  Dusk approached quickly and brought heightened tension. The Roman rebels were not ignorant of the reason for the delay in the World System’s attack. They had heard rumors of the soldier who would lead the charge. Few within their ranks had seen his face and lived to tell the tale, and those who had swore that the darkness itself bent to his will.

  The World System made no offers for their surrender. The grand admiral wanted to make an example of them, to deter any copycats from attempting a similar city-wide takeover in the future. If Donalson had his way, the church would be transformed into a tomb.

  The final gleam of daylight faded into darkness, and the quiet deepened. A stillness of death hung on the air like a predator about to pounce, and all the rebels could do was wait.