by J. L. Lyon
301 nodded, knowing what was coming next and wishing he could avoid it. The admiral hadn’t kept him here to talk about training plans. No one had yet asked him the question brewing behind the old man’s eyes.
“About Aurora, Captain,” the admiral ventured cautiously. “You should know that upon closer examination of Tyrell’s body it was clear he did not die by the edge of a Spectral Gladius. He was shot by the same caliber of weapon used by the men we killed in the docking bay.”
“Why are you telling me this, sir?”
“Her betrayal is difficult enough, I’m sure, without the added weight of another of your comrades dying as a result of her actions. I know the two of you were…close. In fact I would understand if you needed some time to—”
“Thank you, Admiral,” 301 said sharply. “But no. Liz and I were friends—at times, more than that—but I won’t let her betrayal get in the way of what we have to do.”
“And your relationship with the new rebel commander?” McCall asked. “How will that affect what you have to do?”
301 averted his gaze, not sure how to answer. He had always gotten the impression that McCall was on his side, but surely the man had limits. Still, it was best not to be caught in a lie. He lifted his eyes to the admiral’s and sighed, “I’m working on it, sir.”
McCall surveyed him coolly, sizing him up. 301 felt exposed beneath that seasoned stare, as though the old admiral could somehow see past his evasion straight to the heart of the matter: that he loved their greatest enemy, and had already failed once to put an end to her.
But in the end he seemed satisfied by what he saw, and his expression softened, “Very well. You may go, Captain. And if I see you anywhere in these halls within the next six hours, you’ll be greeted with a tranquilizer in your back.”
301 grinned, glad to exchange the inquisitive McCall for the gruff and abrasive commanding officer he was used to. “Understood, sir. You could probably do with some sleep yourself.”
“If I want your opinion, Specter Captain, I will ask for it. Dismissed.”
17
GRACE GAZED INTO HER father’s Spectral Gladius, the refracted light playing across her features, and thought of the countless times she had seen it at his side. The weapon had been a part of him. He had used it to train her in those years when obtaining a new Gladius proved impossible. Only their contacts within Alexandria had brought her Novus Vita, as the weapons were incredibly difficult to make. She wondered if Crenshaw knew the identity of the man responsible for passing them new Spectral Gladii. Probably so. He may have even convinced the man to defect in the first place.
How many others like him were there? How many more within the World System actually worked for Crenshaw’s intelligence cell, biding their time in secret until their moment to shine finally came? She shook her head, unable to imagine living that double life. And again came the nagging question: could she trust a man capable of such unbelievable subterfuge?
Then again, if she had his talents perhaps events at the Communications Tower would not have ended as they did. She was no good at deceit and manipulation—a quality she probably inherited from her father. He had always been so honest and transparent with his emotions—to a fault, in many cases. If she were more like Crenshaw, maybe she would have known the things to say to make Eli come with her. Or better yet, to want to come with her.
In the end it had seemed he might actually do it, but the arrival of Derek Blaine had interrupted—and ruined—everything. The man was a thorn in her side…not only the murderer of her father, but now also the hindrance keeping her from getting through to Eli. She should have taken him down when she had the chance. Then at least she would have had her vengeance.
The only question was whether she would regret killing Derek Blaine more than she regretted not killing him.
And to have been so close to convincing Eli to come with her, only to watch that chance slip through her fingers…it was enough to make her cry. But she could not shed any tears for him, no more than she could shed more tears for her father. Everyone in the compound needed strength now, and they were looking to her to provide it.
She returned her attention to Glorificus. Logically it should go to another Silent Thunder operative, but she couldn’t imagine someone else wielding her father’s blade. It was like a relic, really; the kind of object they might one day speak of in history books. Perhaps she could use it and give up Novus Vita?
No, she answered almost immediately. That’s not what he would have wanted. Novus Vita was a part of her in a way that Glorificus could never be. She set the Gladius on a nearby table and rose to her feet, arms and legs so stiff that she couldn’t suppress a groan. But despite the aches and pains she began peeling off her disgusting, battle-stained uniform piece-by-piece, then gathered them up and threw them into the sink to be washed. At about that time she noticed the patchwork of bruises decorating her body, and winced with pain as she probed a few of the worst. She had certainly looked and felt better…battle didn’t agree with maintaining unblemished skin.
The smell of her clothes lingered on her body, which made her think back to how long it had been since her last shower. Days at least, each filled with walking great distances, crying until she had no more tears, and battle. In the chaos, pausing to worry about personal hygiene hadn’t even crossed her mind. But right then, she felt the need to wash those days away.
The water was not hot—the compound tried not to draw too much power so as not to bring unwanted attention—but it was warm enough to stand in, and reminded her of that first night in the palace when 301 had allowed her the comfort of washing away the vileness of that slave pit. No...Eli, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. My first night in the palace with Eli. He had been so kind to her, so gentle…it was hard to believe that man and the confused, broken soldier she had met on top of the Communications Tower were the same.
As the sweat and grime of battle washed away, Grace felt renewed. The water returned vigor to her careworn body and brought lightness to her shoulders. Her hair fell straight and smooth again, and she scrubbed her face clean of the countless tears that had dried into the skin of her cheeks. But unfortunately there were some things that water simply could not wash away.
She forced herself to turn off the shower even though she could have stood there for the remainder of the day, and reached for the towel hanging just beyond the curtain. After drying off she stepped out, took a disgusted look at her uniform in the sink, and walked back into the room with the intent to climb into bed and get some sleep.
But a light knock at the door dashed those hopes, “Yes?”
“I apologize, Commander,” Davian’s voice answered from the other side of the door. “I know you need to rest, but there is something that cannot wait.”
Grace let out a long sigh. She hadn’t seen Lieutenant Commander Davian since his request to follow up on something he had been working on for her father. Knowing he was back, she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she found out how that mission had gone. She took a detour to her dresser, where she retrieved a fresh uniform. She had worn one nearly every day since their return to Alexandria—her father had said it helped maintain proper decorum.
“How long ago did you return?” she asked, buying herself more time.
“A few hours ago,” Davian replied. “We were very careful. It took us longer than it might have otherwise, but I don’t believe we were followed.”
“Were you successful?”
“We arrived a few minutes too late.”
Grace reached the door and opened it, her face white as she stared at Davian in silent horror. But seeing her reaction, Davian quickly clarified, “They’re all fine—or at least, they will be. The children are still scared out of their minds and the mother is insufferable, but she was tortured at the grand admiral’s order. They broke every finger on both her hands. She’s being treated by the physicians on the first floor right now, in between her demands to know when she will be a
llowed to return home.”
Grace frowned and shook her head, “I should probably speak to her.”
“It will have to wait, I’m afraid,” Davian said, and Grace knew from the change in his expression that something was deeply wrong. “That is not the reason I’m here. You’re needed in the planning room immediately. There’s been…a development. It’s best if you hear it there.”
Grace felt a sinking sense of dread rising in her stomach as Davian led the way down the hall toward the stairs. Her second-in-command was not one to overreact, and he looked like he expected the sky to fall at any moment.
When they reached the planning room on the ground floor, the first face she saw was that of William Traughber—a surly old colonel that in her childhood she had known as ‘Uncle T.’ He had been one of the first to declare for her at her election, a detail she would not soon forget. But she soon saw that all of her officers were present, every man avoiding her gaze and reluctant to reveal the bad news.
Someone has challenged my leadership, she thought apprehensively. But who, and why?
“Spill it, gentlemen,” she said. “And please, don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Very well, Commander,” Colonel Traughber took a deep breath. “The Ruling Council has declared war on the World System.”
It took a moment for Grace to process the statement. After all, the Ruling Council was the World System, wasn’t it? She stole a glance at Crenshaw, who lurked in the corner of the room furthest from her and did not appear surprised. She made note of that and turned her attention back to the officers, “So you’re saying a civil war has begun.”
“Yes, that is what I’m saying,” Traughber replied. “It happened early this morning—or yesterday morning, I suppose. There was a great battle in the Chesapeake. We would not have missed it if not for the confusion of events leading up to the Communications Tower. But in any case, it places us in a somewhat precarious position.”
“Indeed it does,” Grace stared at the room’s far wall, thinking of the implications. A struggle between the two branches of the System’s government could go on for years and leave countless millions dead. And then in the end a tyrant would still reign—assuming there was anything left of the world when the war was over. This was much worse than a challenge to her command. “How many know of this?”
“Word has spread quickly,” Davian replied. “Many knew of it from contacts in the city even before we did. The best we can tell, Sullivan attempted to lay siege to Alexandria. They were forced to turn back, but not before they caused significant damage to the System’s patrol fleet.”
“And significant damage to us, potentially,” Traughber said. “Since this morning there have been…rumors.”
“Rumors of what?”
Everyone looked away again except for Traughber, who answered delicately, “There are some who believe we have been puppets on Sullivan’s strings. Our every action has served to weaken the System, providing greater opportunity for the Ruling Council’s victory. The concern has even been voiced that the benefactor network might have been engineered by Sullivan as a way to supply us so that we, in turn, could divert the MWR’s attention until their coup was brought to fruition.”
Grace shook her head, “The people will always talk.”
“These rumors aren’t coming from the city, Grace,” Davian said. “They are coming from Silent Thunder operatives. They believe we have been played, and that now—even if we manage to bring down the World System—we won’t have the strength to contend with a foreign superpower.”
The room seemed to close in on her. If those thoughts were being spoken by the men under her command, the other commanders were likely saying far worse. This could be it: the nail in the coffin for the alliance, and the end of the Alexandrian campaign.
“You’re awfully quiet, General,” she said, attempting to shift some of the burden of attention away from herself. “If there is one man here who can tell us the truth of that theory, it’s you. Care to enlighten us?”
Crenshaw’s lips were thin, and for a moment Grace feared he would not reply. But after a brief hesitation he gave a long sigh and answered, “I have agents in Sullivan’s camp. We knew he was planning to stage a coup, yes, but did not think it would take place before our operation was complete. Something happened to push up his timetable.”
“What?” Grace asked.
“He learned something.” The general gave her a meaningful look, and she nodded to show she understood. “Whatever it was, it ruined his plans.”
A pang of guilt shot through Grace’s stomach. She hated that they continued to keep these men in the dark. She trusted them with her life, and yet not with this—a truth that could change the rebellion in countless ways. But as they didn’t yet know if Elijah Charity’s survival would mean destruction or salvation for Silent Thunder, they had to keep quiet. If word ever got back to Napoleon Alexander, the whole thing would unravel at the seams.
How did Sullivan know, and why would it have affected his plans? From her time at the palace she knew that Sullivan had been casting his manipulations at 301, attempting to buy his loyalty. Evidently it had been about more than political grandstanding. He had wanted the Specter Captain for his coup.
Learning his true identity undoubtedly made him a much less appealing ally for the tyrant.
“Sullivan’s reasons do not matter,” Traughber said, reluctantly inviting tension back into the room. “At least, not as much as what we will do about it.”
“What can we do?” Grace asked. “They are an ocean away.”
“There are those who suggest we should see this as an opportunity and not a curse.” Traughber paused for a moment, brow furrowed with distaste in clear indication that he would prefer not to continue. But at Grace’s expectant gaze he finished, “Many believe Silent Thunder should throw their full weight behind the Ruling Council and make overtures to the new Imperial government.”
Grace felt her blood turn to ice. “Form an alliance with the Ruling Council? Just a minute ago I thought the sky was falling because people might believe we already had.” Her gaze shifted to each of them accusingly. “What about our cause? What about all the men who have died so that we could live free of Systemics? We spit on them with the mere suggestion of throwing in our lot with Sullivan!”
“There is talk that the Ruling Council is granting greater autonomy to the cities,” one of the officers broke in. “They say there will be elections, and an assembly will be raised—a Citadel with the power to make laws.”
“Closely supervised by Sullivan and the other Council members, I’m sure,” Crenshaw said dryly. “Let us not forget our history, gentlemen, when a young man sailed the world with the lost fleet of the United States handing out promises to rebuild the world, and then turned against freedom when it was too late to stop him. If you have not learned your lesson then perhaps you deserve to spend another twenty years beneath the oppressive rule of a tyrant.”
“Maybe it is time to stop trying to restore the past,” the officer countered, “and start building for the future instead. This is a war we cannot win, not now. We can’t contend with two superpowers. We must choose a side!”
“We have chosen our side,” Grace said. “No Silent Thunder operative will serve the Ruling Council, not so long as I command. And any officer who wishes to defy me may resign his commission and go. That is my final word.”
“Then how shall we proceed, Commander?” Traughber asked. “The three-pronged attack set forth by your father is complete. I assume there are next steps, but time is short. If we cannot strike hard against the System before the Ruling Council attacks again in full force, I fear we will have no choice but to return to the Wilderness and regroup. Say what you will about joining a side, but we will soon be mice among lions if we stay.”
Grace balked. Traughber made a fair point, and it highlighted a reality that she hadn’t yet given enough consideration. Her father’s plan was complete. So far as she knew, there was noth
ing on the agenda after the Communications Tower. For her there was Eli, but the rest of Silent Thunder was now in a holding pattern.
“The benefactors passed Jacob those three targets,” Crenshaw said, coming to her rescue. “We can expect them to contact Grace with more in the days to come. Until then, we must lie low and take minimal risks. Now, as I’m sure you could all agree, the commander needs to rest. When new targets do arrive, she will need to be at the top of her game. As will all of you.”
Grace detected something in the general’s tone, a kind of false sincerity that made her think he might be lying. But surely the benefactors would contact her. Wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t leave Silent Thunder in the dark, not after the important part they had played.
Still, he told one thing true: she did need rest. And though the officers were bothered by the turns of their conversation, they still looked to her at the end. Not Crenshaw. Her. And when she dismissed them, each man nodded to her with honest respect on his way out. There were tough days ahead, to be certain. But at least for tonight, they were still with her.
Crenshaw alone remained, and she started to thank him for the easy out when she noticed his demeanor had become even darker than when the others were present. He had something else to discuss with her. Something she probably was not going to like.
“What is it?”
“I meant what I said about you resting, Grace,” he said. “Perhaps this should wait—”
“You should learn to hide your emotions better, Crenshaw,” she said. “It’s too late for that now. Let’s hear it.”
“I know what you tried to do on top of the Communications Tower tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed, “I tried to convince Eli to abandon the World System and join us. Isn’t that the whole point of what we’re doing when it comes to him?”
“No,” he shook his head. “That is not the plan, Grace, and you know it. We need a man inside the World System at his level of access. We need to win his allegiance, but not pull him out of the World System.”
