by J. L. Lyon
“You’ll never forget him, Grace, I can promise you that. And you certainly don’t need a Gladius to remind you what a great father Jacob Sawyer was to you. If I were you, I’d bury it.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to let go,” Crenshaw answered. “In a perfect world, you would have as much time as you needed to mourn your father properly. But we don’t live in that world. Command of Silent Thunder has fallen to you, and you can’t lead us to the future while holding on to the past. This is your command now, not your father’s. So if you think holding on to that Gladius is going to keep you from doing your job, I suggest you bury it. There’s no rule that says you can’t come back for it, when you’re ready.” Crenshaw’s hand struck something besides dirt, and he sighed, “Finally.” He lifted a medium-sized box from the soil and set it down between them so Grace could see. He raised a small metal covering on the top to reveal a keypad and entered the code 0-8-3-7. The locks released with a click, and he opened the lid.
Grace stared inside, awestruck. It was filled with objects—items that she guessed had once belonged to the people whose names Crenshaw had inscribed upon the wall. Some were simple: photographs and sheets of paper written by hand; but at the sight of others, she nearly gasped.
Three objects in particular caught her eye: two Spectral Gladii and a book inscribed with the name Charles Conway Crenshaw. She looked up at General Crenshaw with wide eyes, “Your father’s?”
Crenshaw nodded, “The journal, including the last will and testament, of my father the last president of the United States. He left it in the care of a friend before he died...a friend who later became our foe.”
As Crenshaw didn’t elaborate, Grace motioned to the other two objects, though she already knew to whom they had belonged. “And these...wow. I didn’t know they still existed.”
The general lifted the first Spectral Gladius from the box, and in the light Grace could see that the casing was unlike anything she had ever seen. Instead of one solid color it was made of many stones, all blended together so that while it began in black at the base of the hilt, the color blended to purple, red, orange, and at last yellow. The weapon’s inscription sparkled in the glow of the light: Diluculo. Lauren Charity’s Spectral Gladius.
“How did you find that?” Grace asked. “I thought she was captured with it.”
“No,” Crenshaw said sadly. “If she’d had this with her she could not have been captured except by a force of hundreds. When Jonathan destroyed the Specter Spire and thwarted their attempt to just blow us away with a missile, the soldiers came. There was a great battle while the last groups evacuated—the signs of which you can still see. I wasn’t here for it, but I came after and found this in the rubble. My only guess is that in the shock of learning of Jonathan’s death and the chaos of the evacuation, she must have accidentally left it behind.”
“Diluculo,” Grace said. “What does it mean?”
“Dawn,” Crenshaw smiled. “My father used to have a saying: ‘No matter how deep the darkness of tonight—’“
“The sun will still rise tomorrow,” Grace finished. “Lauren used to tell me that all the time.”
“Yes, she loved that saying. The two of them were very close.” He studied the Gladius for one moment more before setting it back in the box with his father’s journal.
Grace unclipped Glorificus from her weapons belt and caressed the smooth stone with her thumb. “I suppose it is foolish to think I can hang onto it forever. But at least it will be in good company...that is, if there’s room.”
“There will be,” Crenshaw’s hand closed on the second Gladius in the box and he drew it out. Light caught in the translucent crystal casing and refracted, making the hilt appear to sparkle. “For as we lay one to rest, another must be resurrected whose deeds are not yet done.”
Grace did not ask about this Gladius, for she knew without a doubt whose it was. Every Silent Thunder operative alive knew its name.
“Alright then,” Crenshaw said. “If you want to set Glorificus inside, I’ll rebury the box and we can return to the Command Center.”
Grace’s gaze shifted between Crenshaw and her father’s weapon, “Actually, I was hoping that I might have a few minutes alone. I’d like to bury the box myself.”
The general nodded with understanding, “Okay.” He stood and made for the door, leaving the light rod on the ground next to the box. “I’ll be waiting for you right outside, whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Crenshaw.”
He smiled and disappeared though the doorway, leaving her alone in the quiet room. She placed Glorificus in the box of relics and closed her eyes, thankful for this moment of peace to finally bid her father farewell. Once all the dirt had been replaced over the box’s resting place, she ran a hand lovingly over the earth, “Goodbye, Dad. I will see you again.”
She rose to rejoin Crenshaw, but stopped when another name on the wall caught her eye: Elijah Charity, beloved son, nephew, and friend.
She saw a vision of the boy, standing beside her on the day they had been forced to leave this place, and remembered the way he had been so protective of her—not so different from the way 301 had been on the day when she had been marked with his designation.
And then, suddenly, she saw the entire thing clearly. It hadn’t been her mere presence that had resurrected Elijah Charity within the husk of his former self…it had been his need to protect her. And now that her need was gone, the System soldier had again become dominant. But if that need returned, would Elijah Charity return as well?
Her gut clenched with dread as she realized that path could have only one end. If this was the only way to reach her old friend, the only way to succeed in bringing him back, she had no choice but to do it. But there would be a price…a price that only she could pay.
She would have to die.
27
301 HAD SPENT THE better part of an hour with his hands beneath the faucet, scrubbing his skin raw with scalding hot water. The caked blood had fallen away long before, but he couldn’t shake the notion of his hands being stained with red. And indeed there was a taint, though it might have come more from the scrubbing now than the blood.
But he didn’t care about the pain of losing a layer of skin. The only thing he could see were the unfocused eyes of that teenage girl, staring at him unseeing, the soul that had once dwelt behind them dispatched by his instinctual rage.
You will carry her with you for the rest of your life.
He abruptly stopped washing his hands and turned off the faucet. Curls of steam rose from the sink to fog up the mirror, and he reached up to wipe the condensation away. He stared into his own reflection, seeing there not a man, but a monster; a monster that deserved to die.
Without thinking he balled his hand into a fist and launched it into the mirror, shattering the glass at the point of impact. Pain shot through his knuckles and into his arm, joining with the dull ache of his half-healed left shoulder before bouncing back sharply to his hand. He pulled away from the shattered glass, his hand once again covered in blood—this time his own. The glass had cut but not punctured him—luckily—but it was a distant thought, as the pain was distant.
He leaned against the sink, allowing the trickle of blood from his hand to flow down the side of the white porcelain to the drain. This blood he should not wash away. This was the blood that should have been drawn. His were the eyes that should have stared unseeing, and his the body that should have been taken away and destroyed.
Such is war, a part of him argued. Some live and some die. That’s how it has always been…how it always will be.
“No,” he shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. No matter what he had once believed, he could never view war the same way again. He was not some product of fate, some machine who had no choice in the matter. He could have disarmed that girl instead of attacking, captured her instead of going for the kill. But instead he chose to follow his instincts, to kill her and save
himself.
The World System built its machine of war well. Even his partner, who he wanted to believe a good man, did not bat an eye at the girl’s death. Was that what he was meant to become? Was that what he wanted to become?
With his unwounded hand, 301 reached into his pocket and pulled out the blue stone ring. Gazing into its depths he remembered a better time—a simpler time—when he had not known the truth of who he was. When he could dream about the truth, rather that be forced to face it. During that time the brutality of life as a Great Army soldier had not mattered, for how could he have been any better than what he was? Wasn’t this—with all its flaws and vices—the absolute best version of himself?
He could no longer convince himself of that. The life of a man born to people like Jonathan and Lauren Charity should have been different. Purer. Greater. A man like that should have risen to become something magnificent, something that all others could look to as a shining example of honor, of valor, of justice. His parents had fought for the freedom of the people. That’s what he should have become in their stead.
But he hadn’t. By some cruel twist of fate, he had been absorbed into the World System and become a servant of Napoleon Alexander instead. Depraved, forced to commit unimaginable atrocities just to survive—how far he was from the destiny of that boy…that favored son.
His thoughts at the Silent Thunder base came back to him, that Kacie Jordan had been the first woman—the first child—he had ever killed. But the truth was that he couldn’t be certain of that. On his Wilderness raids, the bullets just flew at random. There were no targets, not really. Their mission was just to mow them all down.
During which he almost always closed his eyes.
But now his eyes were open, and he could never close them again.
It was like that story Grace had told him all those weeks ago, about the King and his rebellious kingdom. All those who had been a part of the rebellion—who made war against honor, justice, and love, were condemned to die. They had ruined the kingdom and welcomed darkness into their midst. But some…some had wanted to be restored.
Is that what he wanted? To be restored? Could he be?
“It’s time to go,” Eli said at his side. “We are not supposed to be here any more.”
“Then where?” he whispered. “Where can I go now, after all I’ve done?”
“You know where,” Eli nodded. “We have to follow the dark path. At the end of it, we’ll find her. She’ll help us.”
I can’t face her, 301 thought, giving in to the same panic that nearly overcame him in that tunnel. She will not look at me the same way…and why should she?
But he couldn’t stay in the World System. That man who could blindly follow orders, no matter how severe, was gone. So he could go, leave the city and take his chances in the Wilderness—though from Grace’s stories, he doubted he could survive on his own. Or, he could turn himself in to Silent Thunder and face their justice.
He placed the ring back in his pocket and ran warm water over his hand. It would need to be bandaged later, but for now it was just a minor issue. He needed to get out of the Spire and back to that Silent Thunder compound. Grace would know that the burned landline left them exposed, and the entire force could be moving on soon. After that, he might never find her.
She might not take him, but he had to try.
301 looked down at Eli, and despite the odd notion that he might simply be talking to himself, he spoke, “Let’s go.”
-X-
Admiral McCall rubbed his tired eyes as he strode down the hallways of the Spire, and took a moment to check his watch. It was that time of year when night seemed to stretch abnormally long. Evening had barely begun, though it felt closer to midnight. Perhaps he was simply getting old.
“…figured you would want to get a look at the new recruits,” Specter Marcus said at his side. “The first wave arrived about an hour ago. Dodson is initiating them now. The rest should arrive from the remaining divisions on into the night.”
McCall nodded, “Good. The MWR wants them operational as soon as possible. Begin with—” The admiral cut off as 301 rounded the corner in front of him, wearing a determined expression as he headed back toward the exit. He passed them with barely a nod, and McCall’s eyes narrowed.
“Give me a moment, Specter,” he said to Marcus.
“Of course, sir,” he nodded. “You know where I’ll be.”
The admiral walked briskly after 301, “Specter Captain. A word?”
For a moment he thought 301 might not stop, but then he slowed with obvious reluctance and turned, “What is it, Admiral? Another impending disaster?”
McCall smiled, “No, nothing like that. Just on my way to see the new recruits. Very promising, so I understand. I only wish they could spend more time with you and Blaine.”
“I’m sure Marcus and Dodson will do just fine,” 301 replied, tapping his foot impatiently. “You look tired, Admiral. Perhaps you should get some rest.”
“I’ll be alright, Captain. I stopped you because there’s something very important that I think you should hear.”
“I’m listening.”
“Matron Young is dying.” McCall paused, and when 301 did not respond he went on, “And she has requested an audience with you.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. But out of all the children who graduated from her program, she chose to contact you. Whatever it is, it must be important.”
The Specter Captain’s expression turned grim, “I have a lot on my plate right now, Admiral. I might have to pass on that invitation.”
“She’s not expected to live beyond the next couple of days, if even that,” McCall said. “You might want to reconsider. It’s your decision, of course. I just hope it’s not one that you’ll regret.”
“I don’t owe that woman anything.”
“No,” the admiral shook his head. “But you may owe it to yourself.”
301 sighed and took a step back toward the door, obviously impatient to leave, “I’ll think about it, Admiral.”
“That’s all I can expect. Where are you hurrying off to at this time of night, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I have a lead,” 301 said quickly, as though the answer had been prepared. “I’m going to investigate.”
“Alone?” McCall crossed his arms. “Do you need any support?”
“No,” 301 snapped, and the admiral could see from the look in the young man’s eyes that he regretted the tone of the reply—not because of disrespect, but because of what it revealed about his mysterious lead. The Specter Captain went on in a more patient voice, “I can handle it. The others have more important matters to deal with right now.”
McCall nodded slowly, “I see.” He paused to make sure the two of them were alone, and then leaned forward, speaking low, “I know what you are going through, Specter Captain. I heard what happened beneath that base, and I have to agree with your partner’s assessment: you did what had to be done…what you were trained to do.” 301 paused, his muscles tense, and the admiral noted his bandaged fist, “That’s small consolation, perhaps, but it was either her…or you.”
“No,” 301 spat. “Neither of us had to die. I could have just stopped her and taken her into custody.”
“And then she still would have died, likely under harsher circumstances.”
“That doesn’t change what I did. What I chose to do.”
“There was nothing you could have done to save her,” McCall said firmly. “Just like there is nothing you can do to save Grace Sawyer.”
The Specter Captain flinched, and for a moment the admiral thought he might draw his Spectral Gladius. But he—thankfully—refrained, content to stare daggers in McCall’s direction, “What makes you think I want to save her?”
“I see it in your eyes, Captain,” McCall replied. “It is the very same look I saw that night in the palace courtyard, when you rescued her from the obscenities of your comrades. It is the same look y
ou wore on the night she escaped, and then again after the Communications Tower, where—despite your encounter on the roof—she mysteriously survived. Love is a powerful thing…worth fighting for. But sooner or later you’re going to have to decide: is it worth dying for?”
301’s stare became vacant as he saw beyond the material world into whatever visions lay within his mind, “I’ll never fight for something I’m not willing to die for, Admiral. Never again.”
“Then you’re lucky,” McCall smiled. “I was a much older man before I made that decision for myself…and I was almost too late.”
“What changed?”
“I saw myself,” McCall replied, suddenly solemn again, “for who I truly was. Mistakes I’d made…actions I could never take back. And then I realized I was not the man I wanted to be. But when we face such choices, there are always consequences to the path we choose, Captain. I hope you’re ready for them.”
“I am.”
McCall nodded, “Then I won’t keep you any longer. If you need assistance—”
“I’ll be fine, Admiral. Thank you.” 301 bowed slightly with respect and continued on his way down the hall toward the exit.
McCall waited for a moment, watching him go, and then turned back in the direction Marcus had gone. But he had no intention of visiting with the new recruits, not now.
He punched in several commands on his watch and turned on his earpiece. After a pause, he spoke, “You were right. Gather the others. Execute your plan.”
28
“AFTER YOU.”
General Crenshaw motioned to the ladder underneath the command center, but Grace just stared at him with cool incredulity, “Not yet, Crenshaw. We set conditions for this journey, and you have not yet met your end of the bargain. Before we go up there, I want the answers you promised me.”
“I had hoped you might forget,” he smiled. “But I suppose I should have known better.”
“Why did you really come back?”
Crenshaw sighed and leaned against the stone wall, head tilted back and eyes set on the curved top of the tunnel, “That’s a complicated question, Grace. I came back for many reasons. To return you to your father, for one.”
