Conquest

by T. C. Edge

  "But they have a provision to allow the Emperors to decide things, don't they, in emergencies like this?"

  "In national emergencies," my grandmother corrects me. "Only emergencies concerning their own city, state, and people. What happens here is of little concern to many of them. I know for a fact that a good proportion of their senate do not agree with this alliance, and will use this as an opportunity to hold things up."

  "Yes," adds Burns, sighing again. "Unfortunately, we are the far weaker party within this alliance right now. Sometimes, the strong don't like to support the weak when they get so little in return. This treaty was predicated on the idea that we will grow stronger in the coming years. This attack is hugely unexpected, and they will not take kindly to having to send such a force of troops so quickly..."

  "Not entirely unexpected," I find myself saying. "I have been talking about this for a while now."

  "You have, and we have done all we can to prepare," says my grandmother swiftly, her eyes suggesting now isn't the time for my sanctimony. "And, Brie, while you have offered us your clairvoyance at times, it hasn't come with a date or time. We will deal with what's in front of us now, and do so together. Now," she says, putting an end to that line of debate, turning her eyes once more around the room, "what are our next military moves?"

  Commander Hendricks steps forward. "Other than scouting their base and trying to learn what we can about them, we have little scope to do much right now. We can arrange some raiding parties to disrupt their camp, especially overnight. It will give us a chance to test their borders and defences."

  "Will it be dangerous?" President Orlando asks.

  "Possibly," answers Hendricks. "We can expect them to post sentries and watchers around their perimeter. We could try to snipe them, take out a few extra soldiers, retreat before they can react. It's a limited strategy, but one that will keep them at least a little bit busy."

  "OK, so long as we don't waste good troops doing so," says the President. "The reality is, we don't have many, and cannot rely on Neorome until we get official word of their aid. Until that point, we have to assume we are on our own. Secretary Burns, how many troops do we have in total?"

  "Including Ares's men?"

  "Yes."

  "Not enough," he says, quite matter-of-factly. "Ares's men number a hundred, minus a few after last night. The same can be said of Hatcher's Stalkers, if and when you choose to deploy them. Our Nameless troops are limited to roughly three hundred, though if we're talking about hybrids, there's only a few dozen. And, the City Guard..." He looks to Hendricks for clarification.

  "In terms of proper soldiers, fit to fight?" Hendricks says, answering. "About fifteen hundred. Many, however, are relatively new conscriptions. We have others in earlier stages of training. I'd prefer not to have to use them if we don't have to."

  "So, roughly two thousand overall?" asks the President.

  Burns and Hendricks share a look, before nodding.

  "What about the Con-Cops?" asks Adryan, otherwise quiet so far. It's often the case, particular in military matters where he doesn't feel his voice and opinion is quite so valuable or justified. His eyes slip from one person to the next. "Can we not use them too?"

  I consider it, as the others do the same. The Con-Cops do constitute a fairly substantial force, at least in numbers. Yet they are far more about quantity than quality, and are, like the Stalkers, something of a reminder of the ills of the past. Mostly, they carry out simple policing tasks these days, their minds still conditioned to follow orders without question and, as a rather useful asset in war, feel no fear.

  "They...wouldn't be much more than cannon fodder," suggests Burns, though with a tone and expression that says cannon fodder might be useful at a time like this. "They'd be good for little more than diversionary tactics. Against a group of powerful Olympian soldiers, they'd offer little to no threat at all."

  "How many do we have?" asks President Orlando, eyes showing some interest.

  "A fair few," says Burns. "A couple of thousand at least. Yet even with them, I don't think our numbers match up to the enemy. And, quite frankly, the Con-Cops might just be a hindrance, unless deployed properly."

  "Isn't it a bit...wrong," I say slowly, "to just throw Con-Cops into the action when they're certain to die? I know they aren't really 'proper' people like us anymore, but still. It leaves a pretty sour taste in the mouth. Or is that just me?"

  "This is war," grunts Hatcher. "If our real soldiers can face the enemy, the Con-Cops can as well. They have their place and purpose too. They shouldn't be discounted."

  "Then perhaps use them in some raids?" suggests Adryan. "Could they not test the enemy defences?"

  "Maybe," says Hendricks, "but they wouldn't be very effective. If we're going to snipe the enemy, we need fine soldiers for the job. If we send Con-Cops, they will be overcome easily, and some may be taken prisoner. They could be interrogated for information if the enemy has telepaths with them."

  "They will," I say, my voice dark. "Herald Nestor was a very powerful telepath. They will have others with them, I'm sure of it."

  "Then let us table this for now," says President Orlando. "The Con-Cops may yet serve our purpose, but not yet. In the meantime, arrange for some light raids this evening," she says, looking towards Burns and Hendricks. "And Adryan, please head right over towards the communications centre. We need to get an answer from Neorome. Try to speak with them again, and be firm, but respectful. You know what to do."

  "Yes, Madam President," says Adryan, standing. He moves for the door, his eyes glancing again at me as he goes, taking in the smiling sight of Marcus right there by my side.

  Is he...jealous? I think, watching him go. I feel the urge to sneak into his head, or at least get a sense of his feelings, but don't act on it. We have spoken about this many times before, as I have with my grandmother. To use my powers on anyone without permission is a grave offence, an invasion of their privacy. On the enemy, yes. On my friends and loved ones, no.

  But...it is tempting sometimes.

  He leaves the room, however, before I can further consider it, Marcus watching him go with a casual smile on his face.

  "Your husband's a bit dull, isn't he?" he says playfully, leaning back in his chair. "You two don't match up at all."

  "Hey," I say. "We do match up, and Adryan is not dull."

  "He's a Savant, or whatever you call them. Of course he's dull," he whispers, perhaps not fully realising that both Burns and my grandmother are Savants too. Thankfully, they don't seem to hear.

  "Watch it," I say, putting on my 'menacing' voice, "or I'll have you marching right out to the enemy camp...naked."

  "You'd love that, wouldn't you," he smirks.

  A flutter of a smile lifts on my lips. I don't respond, my attention taken by the continued discussion.

  "Anything else to report, then?" asks my grandmother. "If not, we shall adjourn for now, and reconvene when we have something more to go on. You all look like you could do with some rest..."

  A thought comes to mind as she speaks, a quite concerning one. My mouth opens, ready to voice it, but I hold myself back a moment. It...it might not go down well.

  My grandmother, alert and keen of eye, sees me.

  "Yes, Brie? What is it?"

  I take a breath. "Well, wouldn't it be a good idea to, um...to bring Artemis in?" I ask.

  Her eyes flatten, lips drawing to a line at the mention of her ex-husband's name.

  "He might prove useful," I go on, trying to convince her. "Whatever we think of everything he did, he did run this city for a long, long time, and seems to know a bit about the Olympians from his days as Director. He might have a few thoughts on all this, perhaps provide some insight?"

  "I wouldn't be interested to hear from him if he did, Brie," my grandmother says slowly. "He has no bearing on this city now, and he has no bearing on the outcome of this fight. He is an outcast, in exile, and will remain so for as long as I draw breath."

&nb
sp; Not much gets her quite so heated as talk of Artemis Cromwell. But on this occasion, I know I have a point. And she's going to have to get over her damn bitterness and listen to it.

  "Look, forget that then," I say. "Think about this..." I lean forward in my seat. "Artemis knows all about this city. He knows about its defences. He knows about the Stalkers. He knows about our capabilities. If he's found by the enemy, it could be a big, big problem. We can't let that happen. We have to bring him in."

  My grandmother's nose turns up at the idea, but I know she's far too wise to not listen to what I'm saying. "Artemis knows little of what has transpired here since his exile. Unless," she growls, "you have been updating him in your private visits?"

  I shake my head. "Of course not. You know why I see him. It's not about that."

  "Yes, well," she says, musing on my point, "I suppose there is some sense in what you're saying, Brie. We will look into collecting Artemis." Her words are abrupt, as if not wanting to dwell on it. "Now, if there's nothing else, then we need to..."

  My hand goes up. Her eyes drop back to me.

  "Yes?"

  I look around the room, as if surprised no one has mentioned it yet.

  "I know how they know about the range of our guns and defences," I say.

  The others draw in, suddenly interested.

  "It's Rhoth," I say, as if it's obvious. "And the other Fangs they captured. They probably got it from them, right? They know more about us than they're probably willing to admit."

  Burns nods. "Could be right," he says. "It's a terrible shame, really. Rhoth is a fine man, and has been a useful ally over the last year."

  Hatcher doesn't show much interest in the words. Marcus, well, he doesn't know who we're talking about. And my grandmother? She nods along, as if everyone is resigned to the fact that Rhoth is dead and gone.

  "He's still alive, you know," I say, looking around the room. "You're...you're not just thinking of leaving him there?"

  "Do we have a choice?" asks Burns, shaking his head solemnly. "If he is alive, and we can't truly be sure of that, Brie, then there's little we can do for him and his men. I'm afraid we have to accept that, right now, Rhoth will remain a captive of theirs. If we can bargain for him, we will. But...well." He steps over, and places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Brie."

  I look up at him, my eyes aghast, then turn to look at my grandmother. "You agree with this?" I ask.

  She nods. "Secretary Burns has laid out the facts, Brie. You're smart enough to know that we can do nothing for him right now. It is a terrible shame, of course, but it isn't our responsibility. Rhoth is a Fang, and he is not of Haven. We cannot act as protectors and saviours of everyone who lingers across our borders."

  I stare at her, so disappointed in her choice of words, in this detached dismissal of a man who I care about, who has been so helpful to us, saved my life more than once. She may well be right, but why this nationalistic rhetoric? Why, when we've become so open armed to the world, would she be so callous towards a man and tribe who have ever been our neighbours and, latterly, friends?

  Frankly, it stinks, and I've had enough of this room for now. With a shake of the head and a puff of frustration, I stand up and head for the door, making my own feelings quite clear. Marcus, perhaps not wanting to remain there with only Burns and the President for company, quickly takes his leave and follows, speeding up to join me.

  "Hey, er...what was all that about?" he asks. "Who's this Rhoth?"

  "A friend," I say, as we head down the corridor, moving into the main control centre, filled with the blur of rushing bodies. "Someone I care about. Someone I've been through a lot with in the past."

  "So, you going to do anything about it then?" he asks me.

  His words don't register for a moment as I march along.

  "Well?" he says, grabbing my shoulder. "Are you?"

  I turn, stopping, my eyes low. "Do what exactly? You heard what they said in there."

  "Yeah, well you don't strike me as someone who follows the rules, Brie Melrose. And I've seen what you can do. If anyone can save the guy, it's you."

  "Sure. I think Ares might have something to say about that."

  "I'm...not so sure. Commander Ares is different. Direct and powerful, but in a different way. Your mind is...it's something else, Brie. Don't take this wrong, but you remind me of Empress Vesper. You know, before she was driven mad." He looks me right in the eye. "Er, don't do that, by the way. Going mad is no fun for anyone."

  I laugh lightly. "I don't plan to."

  "Good. But, other than that, it's a major compliment." His eyes flick off, and he turns my attention across the command room, fitted with workstations and offices, men and women frantically trying to organise the evacuation of Outer Haven. "Look over there."

  I follow his finger, towards a quiet, glass-walled office to one side. Within, a single figure sits on a sofa, his head low, his posture sunken. I feel a terrible pinch of grief as I look at West, sitting so lonely, so out of place, within a foreign city, many of his people dead or captured, the rest probably back in their new village, wondering where their hunting party is. Why Rhoth, West, and the others haven't returned.

  He's a sensitive soul, a young man with such a tragic past. And in Rhoth, and the Fangs, he has the only true family he has left. A father, and brothers. A tribe to call his own.

  "Do it for him," Marcus whispers to me, his voice soft amid the din, almost persuasive as I look upon West. So lonely now. So lost. Without Rhoth, what does he really have left?

  I begin to nod, setting my conviction in place.

  "There it is," Marcus says. "There's that warrior spirit."

  I look over to him, hopeful, my eyes quickly turning suggestive. I open my mouth to speak, but he quickly raises a finger to stop me.

  "Oh no, don't even waste your breath," he says, lifting that signature, winning smile I've gotten to know these last few months. "Of course I'm coming with you."

  13

  Kira

  Ahead of me, a large gate stands, flanked by a couple of Neoroman soldiers. Beyond, within the courtyard, are a number of grand residences, this entire area once heavily guarded and secured.

  That, of course, was mostly due to the temporary occupants here, those gifted killers gathered from far and wide to compete, against their will, in the Imperial Games. The security, really, was to keep them in, rather than keep anyone else out.

  Now, it would appear, the roles have been reversed, the large villas beyond the gate ahead nothing but wealthy homes and possible targets for thieves. There are no gladiators here, locked in the cells, because there would be no point with the games being abolished. No, they are merely private residences, owned and lived in by some of the wealthier residents of the city.

  Well, except one.

  One, really, isn't wealthy at all. At least, he wasn't until recently.

  Now, having been given Dom's old villa, and a host of servants to cater to his every need, he's what people might call an 'up and comer', new money on the high society scene.

  That man, of course, is Merk, Dom's old caretaker, sailor, and general superfan, who now has the great pleasure of living in his villa.

  Oh, how the old man's luck has turned.

  I step towards the soldiers manning the outer gate, part of me expecting a fight - verbal, of course, not physical - and to have to barter my way in. In reality, such a thing isn't needed now. Now, I merely step forward and find myself recognised immediately, the two soldiers bowing low and mumbling, 'Evening, Lady Kira,' nervously under their breath.

  It must be funny for these soldiers seeing me, now all dressed up prim and proper, when they know just what I'm capable of. It's quite possible they were guards here under Dom's service when I was nothing but a slave. Or that they were stationed in the arena somewhere when I painted the sand red with my opponents' blood.

  Either way, they know just who I am, and are not about to disobey me when I order for them to open the gate.
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  They do so immediately, unlocking the gate and letting me pass, the courtyard empty as I pace right through it, and towards the right. There, another gate awaits, providing entrance into the training yard where I spent many hot days learning under the tutelage of Rufus.

  The thought brings a sting, causing me to hesitate and slow. The memory of Rufus is not a comfortable one. I can still feel my blade piercing his body, taking his life, given in sacrifice so I could win our bout...

  I turn from it, not wanting to relive all that right now. Those days are behind me. I have other matters to attend to now.

  I pace on again, reaching the gate, and ring the bell outside. Immediately, I see a servant girl appearing from the main villa ahead, rushing down the steps, across the sand towards me. She slows, recognising me, and drops into a well practiced bow.

  "Lady Kira," she stammers, as nervous as the guards. "Are you...expected?"

  I shake my head. "Please fetch your master," I say. It sounds strange, if a little humorous, to refer to Merk as anyone's master.

  "Yes, of course," she says, bowing again and turning to rush off.

  "Open the gate first," I say with a sigh.

  She fumbles around, turning, nodding hurriedly, scurrying back over and letting me in. I wander inside as she rushes back off and into the house, my eyes taking in the yard once again, the day starting to lighten as morning fully blooms.

  And...what a morning. Only hours ago I was in a state of bliss, lying by Dom's side in bed, starting to come around to the idea of my new life, and new purpose, here.

  Now, well, I'm having to go rogue just to get the hell home and help out my city and friends.

  The pendulum has swung again, I think.

  I wander to one side as I wait, trying to take my mind off it all, and find an old practice sword lying in the sand. I pick it up, look upon it fondly. It's strange that that's the case. I should hate coming back here, shouldn't I? I should hate everything about this yard.