The World Awakening

by Dan Koboldt

  Logan took over the wheel from Mendez an hour after sunrise. A few white puffs dotted the horizon to the west and south. Thankfully, none had yet diverted course to make Logan’s day more difficult. The closer they got to Valteron, the more ships they encountered flying colors that matched their own. It became a cat-and-mouse game of keeping his distance from them without giving the appearance of doing so. Once, another vessel came close enough that he put up the signal for sickness aboard. That turned the eager-to-chat captain around right quick. Trouble was, they left the signal flags up and then encountered a ship full of Valteroni chirurgeons. The damn vessel dogged them for half a day with their offers to come aboard and treat the sick until he’d lost them in the predawn fog.

  “Get some shut-eye,” Logan said.

  Mendez shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “You look like crap. I’ll wake you in four.”

  Mendez didn’t argue, and Logan watched as he trudged belowdecks. The ship life was taking a toll on him. Taking a toll on all of them. The air felt thick as water, and the lack of wind added to the stifling effect. Even under full sail with a decent tack, they were only managing ten knots. At this rate, Holt will die of old age before we find him.

  His comm unit buzzed with an incoming, startling him. He wasn’t due to check in for another hour.

  “HQ to Alpha Team,” came the lieutenant’s voice.

  He hit his transmit button. “Go for Logan.”

  “This is Kiara. What’s your twenty?”

  “We’re headed south, close to the Valteroni border.”

  “Still?”

  “The wind’s against us, and I’ve only got a four-man crew.”

  “Anything unusual to report?” she asked.

  Other than you calling me an hour before check-in? “No. Why?”

  Logan couldn’t believe it. Not only the death count—and that was pretty bad—but the logistics that the numbers suggested. CASE Global rarely sent that many personnel in-world at once. The only other time it had happened was the search-and-rescue for the Victoria. So for almost forty men to be hurt or killed meant there was almost certainly more than that here. “What was this? A training exercise?”

  “No. They’re part of a strike force that we’ve been assembling for new strategic operations.”

  “How big is this strike force?”

  “Two companies.”

  Christ, that’s nearly four hundred soldiers. Easily ten times the number that Logan himself had trained, in his entire tenure on the project. “Where in the hell did we get so many?”

  “We’ve ramped up the recruitment program since you left.”

  “Who’s running it?” The last he checked, Logan was in charge of training, and was pretty sure he’d remember training four hundred new recruits.

  “External contractors.”

  And that’s why you didn’t want to tell me. Logan had opposed bringing in private security forces or other third parties for in-world operations. Not enough vetting, and far too much risk. Raptor Tech, the main commercial rival, probably planted operatives in the private security companies CASE Global was most likely to hire. He was sure of it, mainly because that’s what he’d do in their position. Clearly he’d been overruled on that front, so there was nothing he could do. But he didn’t have to like it. “I hope you can trust them.”

  “Trust is a luxury. We need the manpower.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  The delay stretched out to an uncomfortable length. Too long for her to be picking her words. That meant she was clearing something with the top brass. Either to put him on a need-to-know list, or maybe to cut him loose. Logan hoped for the latter.

  She dashed those hopes a moment later. “I’m reading you in on a new operation. Tiger Paw.”

  Finally, an op name Bradley would appreciate. Or would’ve, if he’d survived. The thought brought a twinge to Logan’s gut. He sighed. “Go ahead.”

  “We’re assembling the forces required for a major military incursion.”

  “When were you planning to tell me about it?”

  “When it became necessary, which is this moment,” she said.

  Thanks for the heads-up. “What’s the operational objective?”

  “Removing the leadership structure of our most powerful adversary.”

  “That’s my job.” He didn’t like that she’d already made contingency plans.

  “You’re the tip of the spear. But Holt has built an entire organization of ambassadors and advisors. We can’t afford to let someone else carry on his plans after you complete your mission.”

  “Like Admiral Blackwell.”

  “He’s at the top of our list,” Kiara said.

  “Mine, too.” Logan had faced him in combat once. The bruises still hadn’t fully healed. On his arm or his ego. “But still, that’s a lot of collateral damage. Valteron will probably end up in another civil war.”

  “Instability serves our purposes.”

  “Tell that to whoever sank your ship.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “It’s an observation. A ship disappearing near the beacon that Bradley set can’t be coincidence.”

  “As much as I dislike your tone, I reached the same conclusion. That’s why we’ve moved up the timetable.”

  “How are you moving them south?”

  “By sea.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “It’s our only option. Our advance teams report that the Kestani have closed the Gap again.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know.”

  The timing made Logan suspicious. “That’s a long way to come across waters you don’t control.”

  “I’m aware. That’s why I have another mission for you.”

  He bit back a sharp reply before it could leave his tongue. “What now? We’re already halfway there.”

  “I want you to find a safe harbor in Valteroni territory from which we can stage our operations. You can do it on the way.”

  Find your own damn harbor, he wanted to say. “Where does it fall in priority?”

  “Number one.”

  “So we can forget the other thing, then.” He kept his tone casual, but prayed she’d agree.

  “I never said that.”

  Damn. “One and done, Lieutenant. That’s what we agreed.”

  She was silent a moment. “This is not a negotiation, Sergeant Major. These are orders. You know what’s at stake.”

  He knew, all right. But he wondered if she did. This entire conversation pissed him off. The potential breach with the private contractors wasn’t even the worst of it. That honor fell to the fact that this half-ass strike force now required him and Mendez to run as the advance team. Which only gave Holt more time to find new protections. And, more importantly, made it longer until Logan could get back to his girls. “Isn’t there anyone else you can ball-bust do to this?”

  “You’re the only team close enough.”

  He gritted his teeth. “What kind of ships are we talking about?”

  “Flotsam. Every half-decent hulk I could cobble together on short notice. My flagship is a Felaran icebreaker with two feet of water in the hold.”

  “Wait, you’re with the fleet?” He’d expected her to return to Command. To quarterback things from afar.

  “Like I said, it’s priority one. We’re bringing about everything we’ve got.”

  She’s coming right to me. The thought sent a ripple of cold calculation through him. A lot of bad things could happen out on the ocean. And she wanted him to tell her where to go. He took a breath and steadied himself. Pretended to think it over, when he’d already made his decision. “I’ll see if I can find the right place.”

  “Let me know when you do. Kiara out.”

  Logan put his comm unit back into standby mode and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out some of the tension. Plans and deceptions wanted to take root in his head, but he pushed those traitorous thoughts aside. Step one was to do
as she wanted. I’ll worry about step two later.

  He summoned Ralf and Snicket to the cockpit.

  “What’s the story, boss?” Snicket asked.

  “How well do you know the ports along the Valteroni coast?” Logan asked them.

  “We used to work on a trader in those parts,” Snicket said. “Took us from south Tion around the bend, a few days past Valteron City.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good berth.”

  “Yep. Was a shame when she foundered in a storm.”

  Wow, these guys did have some bad luck. “So you’ve seen some of the harbors in southwest Valteron,” Logan said.

  Ralf grunted. “Some more than others.”

  “Good. I want to stop somewhere before we make the press to Valteron City to resupply. Someplace quiet, if you take my meaning.”

  In other words, where no one would recognize a stolen Valteroni ship.

  Snicket rubbed his chin. “Reckon we do.” He looked at Ralf. “What about Kidney Cove?”

  Ralf shook his head. “Too crowded.”

  “Lamphorn Bay?”

  “Too shallow for us.”

  “Gustenmire,” Snicket said.

  “There’s a navy outpost.”

  “Well, you know any better places?”

  Ralf looked away. “I know one.”

  “Come on, that one?”

  Ralf shrugged.

  “I promised I wouldn’t go back.”

  Logan had never seen the man look so discomfited. “Where are you talking about?”

  “Nowhere,” Snicket said.

  “Ralf?” Logan asked.

  “Port—”

  Snicket broke in. “Ralf, don’t say it!”

  “Morgan.” Ralf finished.

  Snicket threw up his hands and stomped away, muttering.

  “Port Morgan?” Logan asked. “Never heard of it.”

  “Most haven’t.”

  It sounded too good to be true. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. You’ll like it.”

  Logan pointed at Snicket. “What’s his problem?”

  Ralf barked a laugh. “How much time you got?”

  “Just tell me that Port Morgan will be private.”

  “Private as they come.”

  “Good.” The fewer witnesses, the better.

  Chapter 16

  Turnabout

  “Stage magic makes money, but street magic makes friends.”

  —Art of Illusion, August 23

  Easton Dell, the port village on the Valteroni coast where the meeting was set, was the strangest Alissian settlement Quinn had ever seen. Not that he hadn’t encountered a walled-in village before, but this one had been carved entirely in stone, as if a massive hand lopped off the top of a mountain and then carved out neat rows of houses in the stone below it. Relling took one look at the village’s narrow harbor and proclaimed that the Victoria would drop anchor offshore. She left her first mate in charge of the deck with explicit instructions to flee if any ship but their own tender tried to approach. The ship was to be preserved at all costs.

  She, Moric, Anton, and Quinn climbed down a rickety ladder into the tender, which was nothing more than a rowboat with room for six. Relling took up one of the long oars. Quinn volunteered for the other and quickly regretted it; he was winded after less than twenty strokes while the captain had hardly broken a sweat. She stared at the Victoria unblinking while she rowed, as if willing herself to be back on board it the whole time.

  “I still don’t see . . . why we couldn’t . . . sail up to the pier,” Quinn huffed. The three Valteroni ships, which were already in port when they’d arrived, had docked without issue. “Looks . . . deep enough . . . to me.”

  “It’s plenty deep. It’s the width of the harbor mouth that concerns me.”

  “I’m sure . . . we could fit,” Quinn said.

  “We could sail in without issue. But I doubt we’d have room to turn, and that makes for a slow departure.”

  “Are we in a rush . . . to leave?”

  “We might be,” Relling said.

  “I thought this was a friendly rendezvous.”

  “It’s a meeting with a former ally on his turf. We should be ready for anything.”

  They lapsed into silence as the roar of salt water on stone announced their proximity to the docks. Relling began issuing terse orders. Pull harder. Half-stroke. Steady on. Half the time, he was guessing what she wanted, but she was quick to correct him whenever he guessed wrong. Funny how they’d been adversaries just days ago, and now he jumped to her orders without a second thought. A week on the Victoria was all it took.

  Two men, sailors judging by their garb and posture, waited on the dock in silence. One of them threw a rope when the skiff drew close enough. Moric caught it, and wrapped it in a figure eight around a cleat on the bow. Relling stowed her oar, so Quinn did the same. The other sailor waited near the back of the boat, so he climbed into the stern and found a line there. He estimated the size of the post on the dock, tied a quick bowline, then tossed it to him. The man on the dock had the salt-and-pepper in his beard and the rolling gait of a lifelong sailor. He caught the rope, examined the knot, and gave Quinn a faint nod of recognition.

  Oh, yeah. Nailed it. No one knew knots better than magicians.

  Moric accepted a sailor’s offered hand and clambered up onto the dock. Anton vaulted himself up unassisted, though Quinn could have sworn he felt a twinge of magic. He accepted the salt-and-pepper sailor’s hand; the man had a strong grip cased in rawhide. Quinn was glad to let go of it. The sailors set off down the dock, and Moric and Anton followed. Quinn made to as well, until he noticed Relling wasn’t moving. She stood as if glued to the dock, her eyes still fixed on the Victoria.

  “Captain?” he asked quietly.

  She tore her gaze from the water. “This had better be worth it.” Then she stomped off in the direction the others had gone.

  Quinn hurried to catch up with her. “Look at the bright side, Captain. It’s our first away mission together.”

  “So?”

  He made a grand gesture with one arm. “So now you get to see me in action.”

  “How delightful. Just try not to get us all killed.”

  “Copy that.”

  For the first time in recent memory, Quinn regretted not having Logan around to cover the security angle. The Valteroni ships were moored beneath the walled city of Easton Dell by the time they arrived. No one looked to be aboard, though there were men on the walls. Sentries. Probably just city watchmen, but he couldn’t be sure. Logan would know. Aside from them, the village seemed all but deserted—doors closed tight, windows shuttered, and narrow streets devoid of people.

  Moric, Anton, Quinn, and Relling walked down the main avenue and through yet a second gate in an interior wall, this one made distinct by the iron teeth of an actual portcullis. Beyond that lay a cluster of buildings around a sort of village green, where several people lingered under a tented pavilion. Relling fell back a little. Quinn quickened his steps to catch up with Moric and Anton. Richard Holt at last.

  The former head of CASE Global’s research program sat in the shaded pavilion with his legs propped up on a long wooden table. He wore what Quinn had come to recognize as merchant’s garb: fitted breeches and a light woolen shirt beneath a long belted jacket. The leather boots seemed period-appropriate from every angle except the bottom, which revealed soles with the unmistakable tread of company-issued footwear.

  Those soles just happened to be visible as Quinn approached, which probably was no accident. That’s a message meant for me. A gentle reminder that Holt had the best of both worlds: the knowledge and tech of the company’s R & D lab, plus the considerable resources of Valteron’s supreme leader.

  Richard spotted them, but didn’t get up. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. A squad of exotic-looking fighters formed a protective ring around him, their long, beaded hair rattling against chitinous armor. They were taller
than most Alissians Quinn had seen, but unless he was mistaken, they were all women. Regular soldiers in Valteroni livery appeared in windows and on rooftops all around the green. Everyone had a crossbow. Locked, loaded, and aimed at the Enclave magicians.

  Well, son of a bitch. Quinn wanted to edge closer to Moric and Anton, who stood just outside the edge of the pavilion. But he also didn’t want to be shot with a crossbow. The flexsteel armor was no guarantee of protection at this range.

  “Richard, what is this?” Moric asked.

  Holt put down his feet, stood, and stretched. His tone was casual. “I hope you’ll understand our need for security, given recent events.”

  A dull thump echoed down from one of the overlooking windows, followed by a whimper of pain. Then a body fell out of the sky, thudding heavily on the grass of the village green. Must have been one of the crossbowmen in the windows. He appeared unconscious. They all looked up to the window above, where someone else had taken up the crossbow, and pointed it unambiguously at Richard Holt.

  Quinn smiled to himself. Nice work, Captain.

  “You have your security. We have ours,” Moric said. “And I should remind you that the consequences of harming a member of our guild apply to everyone. Even the Valteroni Prime.”

  “There’s no need for theatrics, Moric. It’s not you that I’m worried about.” Holt sauntered past him and Anton—which caused visible irritation on the latter’s face—and approached Quinn where he stood. His exotic guards floated after him like orbiting moons. Relling kept a bead on him with the crossbow, which basically meant she ended up pointing in Quinn’s direction, too. Perfect. Hopefully she wouldn’t get an itch near her trigger finger.

  “You must be Quinn,” Holt said. Emerald fire burned in his eyes, but whether it was curiosity or simmering anger was difficult to tell. His guards spread out to encircle both of them. None had drawn weapons, but they looked capable of doing plenty of damage with their bare hands.

  Quinn did his best to ignore them, and put on his stage grin. “You must be Richard.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Not as much as I’ve heard about you, I’d wager.” It was strange, because after reading so many of his reports, and hearing so many stories about him from the rest of the team, Quinn almost felt like he knew him.