by J. L. Lyon
She laughed, “Sorry, 301. I’m just trying to get to know you better. I belong to you now, after all.” Grace held up her arm and indicated the brand of his designation that had been seared into her flesh. It was so swollen and red that 301 felt embarrassed he had not seen to it earlier, knowing she must be in great pain.
He rose, “I’ll be right back.” He walked over to the bathroom and a moment later returned with a wet towel, antiseptic, and a box of bandages. Kneeling on the floor in front of her, he pressed the warm cloth gently against her arm to wipe away the dead skin left by the brand, applied the antiseptic—which made her cringe—and then carefully wrapped her arm in bandages.
Grace watched him closely in silence the entire time, observing his compassion and attentiveness for her welfare with great interest. But when her arm was finished, he didn’t stop there. He used the other side of the cloth and pressed it to the bruise on her face where the slavers had struck her earlier in the day. Their eyes met as he did so, and Grace felt her heart leap.
“You’re a very interesting man, 301-14-A,” she said quietly.
He smiled at her—a genuine smile, and one he didn’t often give, “So does that mean we have a deal?”
She nodded, and for the first time in a long while she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be. “Yes. I will teach you how to fight with the Gladius, but there is something else I would like in return.”
“Your life is not enough?” She could tell from his tone that he meant it in jest, and it set her heart at ease. He had made his decision.
“I would also like it if we could…talk, from time to time. I will tell you about me, and you can tell me about you. Maybe that will help us better…understand one another.”
301 covered her hand with his, “You have a deal, Grace. And as long as you stay here, I promise I will keep you safe.” He left out the end of the statement, but couldn’t stop it from echoing in his mind:
Even if it costs my life.
18
“GENTLEMEN,” SULLIVAN SAID from the head of the table in the Hall of Advisors. “It is with mixed feelings that I open this session tonight…for this could very well be the last time we convene as the Chief Advisors of the Ruling Council. In the morning, you will be dismissed to return home to your respective divisions. Communications overseas will be limited, as we can never really know whether or not they are being monitored. Therefore all plans for the overthrow of Napoleon Alexander must be set in stone tonight.”
“Overthrow?” one of the advisors whispered anxiously. “Premier, perhaps it is not wise to speak so openly about this! How do you know this very conversation isn’t being recorded?”
“I have taken great care to ensure the security of the Hall of Advisors,” Sullivan assured. “And it is time for us to call the plan what it is. This is no mere disagreement; it is not something that can be reconciled with time, nor a grievance that can be negotiated. This is a coup, gentlemen. What we are about to attempt is the overthrow of the most powerful and far-reaching government to ever rule on this planet. We will relocate to Division Nine and assume direct control of all the divisions in the eastern hemisphere as well as our territories in the Tripartite. The regional leaders have already pledged themselves to our cause. From Rome we will force the capitulation of the MWR through force of arms and bring an end to his myopic rule once and for all.”
“The generals and division leaders of the east are prepared to realign their governments to accommodate the new command structure,” Chief Drake added. “We are in the process of extending our influence into the lower levels of the bureaucracy to avoid unnecessary revolts, though it seems most are willing to trust in any new government so long as it is not the World System.”
“When will the plan be ready?” the first advisor asked.
“In my estimation, a smooth and quiet separation from the System can be achieved in approximately three months,” Drake answered.
“But it won’t stay quiet,” Sullivan said darkly.
“Of course it won’t!” the advisor insisted. “Alexander will not stand for the loss of half his kingdom! You mean to plunge the entire world into war! And right as Specter becomes operational?”
Drake spoke again, “The Premier has assured us that Specter—”
“Leave Specter to me, Chief,” Sullivan cut across him. “I promised you that I had a plan for its reinstatement—a plan that has been thrown a few setbacks, I will admit, but in a few months’ time I am confident it will still serve our purposes. And in the instance of war, let’s be frank—we either engage Alexander now when he least suspects it, or we wait for his order to dissolve the Council when we all die in our beds. No victory ever came without risk.”
The advisor nodded silently, discerning from the Premier’s tone that he should not object further.
“The armies of the east are superior in strength to those of the west,” Holt said confidently. “There are not as many powerful cities, it is true, but holding the Tripartite will tip the balance in our favor. Even should we fail to attain Specter’s complete devotion, victory remains probable. It could be years before we sit in Division One again, but I am confident that we will.”
“Not to mention that the World System may soon become entrenched in another rebellion, this one right on her doorstep,” Drake said. “It would be wise, Premier, to conclude our dealings here before the rebellion becomes a severe threat.”
“Agreed,” Sullivan replied. “Chief Drake and Chief Holt will handle the remaining preparations for the separation. The rest of you will return to your divisions as though nothing has changed, and wait for me to contact you. When that happens the eastern divisions will break communications with the World System, and Central Command will lose contact with the generals stationed in the eastern hemisphere. We will gather and regroup at Rome to hash out the details of our new imperial government.”
“Imperial?” an advisor asked.
“Yes,” Sullivan smiled. “Surely you didn’t think we would remain the Ruling Council? We are forming a new world empire, Chief Advisor, and all that remains is to see what form it will take when the separation is complete.”
“But by definition only an emperor can rule an empire, sir.”
Sullivan’s smile grew wider, “Right you are, my friend. As Premier of the Ruling Council, I shall become the new Emperor of Rome. I will preside over this council much as I always have, and will be the figurehead of the government only. We—all of us—will have governing power.”
None of the other advisors seemed surprised by this—or at least they weren’t inclined to disagree.
“What of Donalson?” Holt asked. “It will be difficult to prepare Rome for our rule if he is there supervising the eradication of the Roman revolt.”
“He won’t remain in the east for long,” Sullivan replied. “If war breaks out in Alexandria, the MWR will have him back here in no time at all.”
“Then we will return to our divisions and await your signal, Emperor,” Drake said with a slight bow of his head. “If everything goes smoothly, we will be toasting our wine glasses to the birth of our empire before the year is out.”
“And only days—perhaps hours—later,” Holt said dryly, “we will be in the greatest war ever to rage upon the earth.”
19
“WOW,” LIZ REMARKED as 301 came up beside her on the field where they had been instructed to gather. “Long night?”
“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. “I had a little trouble sleeping.”
“Right,” she said bitterly. “I suppose you were up late focusing on your extracurriculars. How was that, by the way?”
301 looked at her strangely, and whispered so that the other trainees waiting nearby could not hear, “Liz, what are you talking about?”
“A particular woman in white, whose unfortunate situation became your fantasy last night.”
He had to think for a moment before realizing what s
he meant. Already, he no longer thought of Grace as a slave—much less one that belonged to him. Seeing the jealously on Liz’s face did please him, however, and he was tempted to let her continue believing what her mind must have been imagining all night. But he chose the truth instead, “Actually, we just talked.”
Her eyebrows raised and she crossed her arms in an obvious I don’t believe you stance, “You just talked. Wow, what did you talk about? How you stole her life by making her your slave, or how lucky she is to have landed a master as benevolent and good as you?”
“Okay, enough with the sarcasm,” he shook his head. “If you don’t want to believe me, fine, but that’s what happened. I would never take advantage of another person like that, Liz…not even a slave.”
Liz remained skeptical, “Then why so tired? Surely there wasn’t that much to talk about.”
301 looked around to make sure the others—especially Blaine—were not within earshot. Most were preoccupied with stretching, and a few were busy telling their stories of the previous night. Satisfied that no one was paying them any mind, he answered, “Actually, I had a lot of weird dreams last night, and I kind of wanted to ask you something.”
She smiled, “Save it, 301. Use your pick-up lines on that slave of yours.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “I think I might be going crazy.”
Liz lightened up a little, but still looked prepared to accept the punch line at any moment, “Why do you say that?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
She laughed out loud, drawing the stares of the other trainees. 301 waited until they had stopped staring and went on, “This is not a joke, Liz. I think I’m being haunted.”
“Haunted,” she said, still smiling. “By what?”
“A boy named Eli.”
“You realize how crazy that sounds?” she asked. “Did your slave bring you anything to drink last night—inject you with anything, perhaps?”
“No,” he said. “The first time I saw him was two days ago, right before I appeared before the Ruling Council to be judged. I thought I was done for, but then he came and told me that I shouldn’t be afraid. Later he appeared in the Hall of Mirrors and helped me remember how to activate a Spectral Gladius.”
“Wait,” she held up a hand, “What do you mean, remember? That was the first time you had ever touched a Gladius, right?”
301 thought for a second. That had been the first time he’d held one, so far as he knew. “Bad word choice. I meant discover, not remember. But then, last night, he appeared again, and told me to help that slave girl. When he appeared in the room I tried to grab him, but when I touched him—it was like he transported me somewhere else.”
“Like to where? Mars?”
“This is not funny, Liz!” his voice rose. “And I don’t know where…they were like memories. Fragmented memories that he made me watch. And the strange thing is that last night when I went to sleep, I dreamt of those same memories over and over and over again, each time waking up in a cold sweat and terrified out of my mind.”
“Listen, 301,” Liz said gently. “You obviously had too much to drink last night, and the shock of the last two days is finally getting to you. Just forget about your little ghost boy and his memories for now. It was just a hallucination. Don’t flake out on me on the first day of training…the last thing I need is for Derek Blaine to be named Specter Captain in your place.”
301 shook his head, “Thanks so much for your concern.”
“Attention!” Admiral McCall’s voice boomed from a few feet away as he arrived at their position in the courtyard. “Fall into line, all of you!” The ten champions did as instructed, and the admiral paced up and down the line, looking each of them in the eye. “Now that you have been coddled like precious little babies by the MWR and the Ruling Council, perhaps we can get down to business. Just in case any of you have gotten the wrong idea, let me make things clear: the life of a Specter is a life of hardship and war, where death lurks around every corner and the Great Army waits for the best moment to shove a dagger straight into your back. Make no mistake: though the generals enjoyed your little celebration last night, they do not like you. Specter’s very existence is a threat to their dominance of the armed forces, so watch yourselves.
“To that end, the first session of your training will be a lesson in what sets Specter apart from all the warriors of the Great Army.” McCall reached to his side and drew his Spectral Gladius. He continued speaking as the blade materialized from the hilt and the diamond armor came to life. “The life of a Specter depends on the presence of his blade—a weapon considered by all in the military trade to be the most powerful hand-held device in the world. In the past there were recruits who underestimated this power, and received their just due: a severed limb, in most cases, though sometimes the unlearned have managed to inadvertently end their own lives.
“So, until I am satisfied with your skill with the sword, you will not be using actual Gladii,” he deactivated his blade and placed it back at his side, then knelt down to open a small box that lay in the grass before him. He pulled two long wooden Gladius replicas from the box and held them up for all ten of them to see. “Instead you will be sparring with these: exact copies of the Gladius in size and weight, but without the obvious dangers.
“Before we begin, allow me to say one thing further: the Spectral-adepts of Silent Thunder are some of the greatest fighters in the world. Crossing blades with them unprepared is parallel to suicide, and you should meditate on the implications of that statement throughout your training. Underestimate them, and I assure you there will be no time for you to regret it.” His lip curled. “Now let’s see…Dodson and Marcus, please step forward.”
The two did as commanded, and McCall handed each a wooden Gladius. 301 watched both men grasp the hilt as if they knew exactly what they were doing, but he could tell by the looks on their faces that neither had a clue. They looked at the admiral, expecting some sort of indication as to what to do next. He smiled and spoke, “Fight.”
At first they hesitated. Then Marcus swung hard and fast at Dodson’s thigh. Dodson lowered his weapon in defense, but the force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards. The two continued to struggle awkwardly with one another for about a minute, swinging and parrying with unnecessary difficulty. 301 found himself critiquing their every move, seeing ways that they could improve on their form—but then he realized that his own experience with the Gladius was limited, to say the least.
“Stop,” McCall said, and the two Specters sighed in relief. “Not bad, gentlemen. Your form needs a lot of work, and you must learn that not every swing in a duel is meant to be a killing blow. I expected as much. You may fall back into line. Next let’s have Specter Aurora and…” he hesitated briefly before finishing with a smile, “Captain. Step forward and show us what I’m sure we’re all waiting to see.”
301 thought he saw Liz grin out of the corner of his eye, and to her credit she stepped out confidently to face him. Taking the wooden Gladius from Specter Dodson, she walked lithely to the front of the line and waited. 301 took his weapon from Marcus and stepped up opposite her.
“Don’t underestimate me, Captain,” she said with a taunting smile. “If you do, I might just have to teach you a lesson.”
301 said nothing, instead taking a moment to center himself with two long, deep breaths. The same mysterious feeling of control that had saved his life in the Hall of Mirrors came over him, his grip on the wooden handle loosened for better poise, and his confidence came into equilibrium—not anxious, but not arrogant either. From the recesses of his mind he seemed to hear instructions: Do not take the first offensive. Study the methods of your opponent and then break loose with your attack.
He remained eerily still as Liz waited for his attack. But ten seconds passed with no movement, and she chose to take the first action instead. Mimicking the earlier move of Specter Marcus, she swung downward toward his thigh. 301 respond
ed quickly and stopped the blade dead in its tracks. She swung again at his side, but 301 used his blade to push hers away. Then he twirled the wooden Gladius with one hand over her head and brought down such a powerful blow that she lost her grip and the weapon went flying. He pressed the tip of the Gladius at Liz’s throat and smiled, “Lesson learned, Specter Aurora.”
She held up her hands in surrender, gave him a respectful and somewhat enticing look, and backed away. The rest of the trainees were dumbfounded. The actual duel lasted less than five seconds.
“And the mystery of the Shadow Soldier deepens,” McCall said. “You’ve never had any instruction in Gladius combat?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
McCall nodded, “Right then. Aurora, fall back into line. Captain, I want you to remain where you are for now. As for the rest of you: watch and learn. The Specter Captain’s form is excellent. Some men will fight for years and never achieve the kind of mobility and speed you have just seen. Notice the placement of his hands on the hilt: both available, but neither grip so tight that quick one-handed action can’t be easily executed. His poise is one of confidence, and he attacks with speed rather than brute strength—a skill that will prove invaluable against the rebels of Silent Thunder. You will be lucky, gentlemen—and lady—if you can come close to this kind of control by the time we are operational. Now…”
The admiral proceeded to call forward the rest of the trainees, all of whom met with similar problems. The longest of the duels still lasted less than ten seconds, and 301 noticed he wasn’t even breaking a sweat. If any of the trainees had doubted his ability to lead them, they were now seriously reconsidering.
At last the time came for the final duel, which 301 doubted was left to the end by accident. Derek Blaine wore a smirk on his face as he picked up the wooden Gladius from the ground where its last user had been disarmed, and turned to face 301 with confident disdain. Blaine did not mimic 301’s movements as the others had done, but instead brought the wooden blade up parallel to his face and closed his eyes as though meditating.
