by J. L. Lyon
He turned back the grand admiral as the man struggled to rise but couldn’t manage it, sliding back down the wall into a pitiful heap. 301’s rage was not sated, however, and he might have resumed the beating had a Great Army officer not rounded the corner that very instant. He looked at the three of them in turn, and 301 could see him cursing his luck as soon as he recognized their ranks.
“Corporal,” Donalson said, blood pouring from his nose. “Shoot this traitor where he stands!”
301 turned on the corporal with an intimidating stare, “You know who I am, soldier?”
“Yes, Specter Captain.”
“Good,” 301 said. “I want you to look at what I have done to the grand admiral. Go, on, look.” The corporal was hesitant, but he complied. He grimaced at the murderous look on Donalson’s face, but still made no move to obey his orders. “If I would do something like this to the grand admiral of the World System, Corporal, what do you think I would do to you?”
The soldier’s eyes widened in fear, “Sir, I—what should I—?”
“Take this prisoner to the dungeons,” 301 said, indicating Grace. “See that she arrives there safely and that no one interferes. Do this for me and I will forget your presence here.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal said, and Donalson muttered some unintelligible curse under his breath. “Of course, sir.” The soldier helped Grace to her feet and led her away. A quick glance in her direction was all 301 dared to steal, for he could not afford to have suspicions grow any further than they already had. Everything depended on him remaining in the full power and honor of his station.
He breathed a sigh of relief as she rounded the corner and left his sight.
Donalson spat blood on the red velvet carpet and braced himself against the wall as he rose on unsteady legs. “I see your mentor’s taint has trickled down into you as well. I expected no less.”
301’s eyes narrowed in confusion, “What are you talking about?”
“Your precious admiral, the man who brought Specter back from the grave,” Donalson said with an evil sneer. “It would seem he has been playing both sides all along.”
301 grimaced and shook his head, disbelieving. McCall, working with the rebellion? It didn’t seem possible. He had immense respect for the old man, but couldn’t imagine he would have been able to fool so many for so long. But if he was an agent of the rebellion, 301 certainly could use another sword at his side.
“Where is he?”
“The morgue,” Donalson replied. “Or at least, whatever passes for a morgue in the palace. He tried to kill the MWR, so I put a bullet in his back. There is no honor accorded to traitors.”
301 was speechless. It couldn’t be true… McCall had been his mentor, the only commanding officer he could say he had any respect for at all. Countless times the old man had covered for him, and he had always sheltered the team from the treacherous waters of politics within the hierarchy. If he was dead, then that shelter was gone.
Donalson wiped some of the blood from his face and continued with disdain, “No matter what the MWR says, I am convinced you have been infected with the same poison that infected McCall. From here on out, Specter Captain, you had better keep a careful watch over your shoulder.”
301 stepped up to him and whispered, “Just make sure whoever you send after me is expendable, Grand Admiral, since I know you don’t have the stones to come after me yourself.” He left the man standing there in the hall, hoping as he rounded the corner that his actions would not lead to ruin. Grace was saved momentarily, but he needed to be careful if that was to become permanent.
He wiped the grand admiral’s blood off his knuckles and onto his uniform, savoring the satisfaction of laying into the man at last. His only regret was that he had stopped when he did. Still, he couldn’t get the image of McCall laying dead on a table somewhere out of his mind.
Napoleon Alexander stood at the very back of the room looking out his window as 301 entered—much the same as he had been the first time the two men had met. 301 had been a mindless servant then, ready to die if the Ruling Council decreed it. Now it took all the self-control he could summon not to draw his weapon and strike the MWR down.
He stood at attention as the doors closed behind him, “Mighty World Ruler, sir. I was told you wished to speak with me.”
Alexander turned around to face him, lips thin, “Yes, Specter Captain. Though I must say I expected you to be here hours ago when your prisoner was first brought in.”
“I apologize, sir,” 301 said. “Pressing matters in the city required my attention.”
“So your partner told me,” the MWR replied. “But as I asked him: what could be more important?”
“The Matron of the Capital Orphanage where I was raised just passed away. She had asked to see me once more before she died.”
“Ah,” Alexander nodded. “So the good matron is dead. Her program turned out more successful soldiers than any other source within the System. I suppose you were her most prized project. Still, it doesn’t make what I have to tell you any easier…”
301 saw it then, sitting on the desk in front of him. The drab gray casing made it one of the more uninteresting ones he had seen, but there was no mistaking the name carved into the hilt: Amicus. Admiral McCall’s Gladius.
“First, I want you to hear it straight from me: I am placing Specter entirely under your command effective as of this moment.” The MWR let his eyes trail briefly to the Gladius, and then back to 301, “Your promotion does not come without a price, however. I’m afraid your predecessor was a traitor, Specter Captain. He came to me, under cover of this darkness, and made an attempt on my life. But as happens with all traitors, he is dead.”
301’s heart fell. So it was true then; McCall had been executed for treason.
“Who was he working for, sir?”
“The rebellion,” Alexander answered with distaste. “Apparently he has been a sympathizer for years, so if you feel any guilt at not seeing it my advice is to put it out of your mind. He fooled everyone, and placed himself here in this palace for the purpose of killing me. He would have succeeded, too, had it not been for the grand admiral’s timely arrival.”
301 felt another stab of grief for the old man. But as he had also become a rebel sympathizer of late—albeit for a different reason—he wanted to stay far from that topic.
“So I hear there is to be an execution,” he said flatly. “A burning.”
“Yes,” Alexander smiled. “And we’re hoping a good deal of Silent Thunder operatives will be in attendance. It is our plan to cordon off the Square and eliminate them. If the death of their second leader in the span of a few days is not enough to scatter them, then the loss of the majority of their men should be. Yes, Specter Captain, I suspect that by morning there will no longer be a Silent Thunder rebellion, allowing us to turn our full attention to the Ruling Council.”
301 hesitated. The plans to fight against Sullivan in the coming civil war no longer concerned him, but he had to keep up pretenses.
“I’m going to need more men, sir. More Specters.”
“Agreed,” Alexander replied. “Hopefully your incoming recruits will not need as much time to train now that they have all of Specter First Class to teach them as opposed to just one man. If we build you a solid force of Specters one hundred strong, can you bring down the Ruling Council?”
301 nodded, “Yes. Augmented by the Great Army, they will be hard-pressed to stop us.”
“Excellent,” Alexander smiled. “The Premier took a great risk in betraying me, and he—along with all the others—will pay dearly for inciting this civil war.”
Of all those who will pay dearly for their crimes, 301 thought. You will suffer most of all. He was so tempted…the MWR was unarmed and helpless before him. He could draw the blade at his side and end it all with a single swing. There would be no battle, no clash of sworn enemies—Alexander would die before he even had time to react, and the world would be free of his terri
ble reign forever. 301 wouldn’t make it out of the palace alive, but his vengeful hunger would be sated and thousands—perhaps millions—of lives would be saved. His hand slid over to Calumnior.
“Your first task as commander of Specter will be to guard the royal platform at tonight’s execution. I suggest you go and inform your men of the new order, and prepare them for what lies ahead.”
301 rose. His craving would have to wait. Grace still needed him, and to strike now would be to abandon her to her death. 301 bowed courteously to the MWR, covering his disgust with one final smile, “Thank you, sir. I will await your orders at the Specter Spire.”
And once Grace is free, he thought, you will be mine.
39
A BLACK LIMOUSINE CAME to a stop in Vatican Square, flanked on both sides by armored military vehicles. Charles Justus stepped smoothly out of the car, running his fingers through jet-black hair as he made his way forward toward the stairs.
Liz looked on with Sullivan to her left, knowing the emperor was still less than enthusiastic about setting Justus loose in Alexandria. To her chagrin, the Councilor he had brought along to welcome the man back from his dungeon cell was in agreement. Gordon Drake spoke quietly in Sullivan’s ear, the sound carrying just enough for her to hear, “Emperor, I strongly advise you to reconsider. Justus has always been, and will always be, our enemy. We cannot trust him.”
“An alliance with Silent Thunder will be advantageous, you can’t deny it,” Sullivan replied. “He is our best chance at getting them to trust us long enough to forge such a partnership.”
“He is a loose cannon,” Drake argued. “There are some things we are fools to believe we can control. Like Specter.”
Sullivan sighed in exasperation, “Specter was my mistake, and I have taken full responsibility for it. Still, we managed to gain for ourselves a more than capable commander out of that debacle.” He nodded respectfully at Liz. “This is her plan, old friend. If you want to complain, do it in her ear. But for now we have a larger problem.”
“What is it?” Drake asked.
“Holt,” Sullivan replied. “It seems he may have had certain motives in staging this coup that he never fully revealed.”
“Ah,” Drake nodded. “So he came to you with his sentiments of a return to the Old World—against my advice, I might add.”
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed in accusation, “You knew of this and said nothing?”
“I told him to leave things be,” Drake said. “I never dreamed he would have the nerve to voice his beliefs to you. At the time I thought him possessed of some old chivalry brought to the surface by the threat of our new war.”
Sullivan looked back down toward Justus and his escort, who were just beginning to climb the stairs, “So I have a man who speaks treason on one side, and one who conceals it on the other.”
Drake was unabashed, “Is it treason, sir? You have given us leave to proceed with the election of the Citadel. Their powers will be limited, but so were those of the British Parliament when first they were established. When democracy is present, it spreads like wildfire. The people crave their old systems, and if you give them a taste they will not let go, even to the undoing of the Empire.”
“And the victory of the System,” Sullivan said. “That is an event we cannot allow, even if it requires the removal of a member on the High Council.”
“Removal?” Drake asked, shocked. “Emperor, Christopher Holt is one of your dearest friends—”
“That will not cloud my judgment on this issue. Holt overstepped the bounds of what is appropriate for a man in his position, and I will not have him working behind my back as we worked behind Alexander’s. If he is no longer of sound mind to serve the interests of the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities, then he shall not continue to sit on its Council. Chief Aurora, what do you suggest?”
Liz nearly jumped at the sound of her name. She had thought herself forgotten to the two men, but now both watched her with a keen eye. Drake no doubt wanted her to talk sense into the emperor, to convince him it would not be prudent to off a member of the High Council so soon after the separation. But there was a fire in Sullivan’s eyes—a determination that she did not want to defy. Standing there, she couldn’t help but see the irony. For a man that hated Napoleon Alexander so much, he was turning out to be very much like him.
Justus was only halfway up the stairs. She wished he would hurry so she could escape the conversation. She was there to discuss the tactics of war, not politics. Still, she had to say something. “The way I see it you have three options. First, you could persuade Councilor Holt to quietly retire with honor. Though if he is passionate enough about his cause, he will not step down quietly. Your second option, then, would be to have the Imperial High Council vote him down. The downside there is that he will be given a forum to air his grievances, and as he is a respected member he might turn others to his cause. Lastly—”
“Enough,” Sullivan held up his hand. “I don’t need to hear that one.”
“Councilor Holt is a wise man,” Drake said. “We shouldn’t be rash in deposing him.”
Liz noticed the emperor’s hard expression and knew he did not agree. Friend or not, Holt had spoken many things that greatly disturbed him. Unbeknownst to the emperor, she had listened in on their entire conversation, and had she been on his end she didn’t know if she would feel any different. What Holt suggested completely overturned the way the government had been run for near twenty years.
No more could be said at the moment, for Justus came within earshot of them. Sullivan gave her a short nod, promising that the conversation would continue later, and turned his attention to the rebel leader—tamed, now, from the look of him. “Welcome back to St. Peter’s Basilica, Major Justus. Accommodations here have no doubt changed since your last visit.”
Justus nodded, and as he did so a loud pop sounded from somewhere in the distance. Purely by reflex, Liz lifted her eyes to the horizon to see the source of the noise, thus only witnessing in her peripheral vision as Councilor Drake fell on the other side of the emperor. Justus’s escort of soldiers grabbed Sullivan and dragged him into the basilica as more bullets tore into the side of the building. Liz hid behind one of the columns, trying to ascertain the source of the shots.
Charles Justus, now without protective escort and amidst a shower of gunfire, bent down next to Councilor Drake and took the man in his arms. Liz couldn’t believe her eyes as the rebel leader rose and carried his old foe inside the basilica to safety. Liz followed on their heels, shouting the position of the shooters to the Imperial Guardsmen inside.
The guardsmen left even as Justus, covered in Councilor Drake’s blood, shouted at the top of his lungs, “Medic! We need a medic here!”
Sullivan shook off the death grips of the guardsmen and barked out orders at more standing by, “You two! Get Councilor Drake to the medical facility immediately!” The soldiers obeyed, and took the Councilor out of the rebel’s arms. “As for the rest of you,” Sullivan said darkly, pointing a finger at Justus. “Restrain that man!”
As the guardsmen took hold of him aggressively, Justus protested, “Emperor, I swear to you I had nothing to do with this!” But it was Liz he looked to for help. She had seen him risk his life for Drake, but she had also seen him nod just as the shot rang out. Coincidence?
“Those are not my men!” Justus went on desperately, struggling against the grips of the guardsmen. “I was just as much a target as any of you, and if not for me your councilor would still be outside on his back! Is this how the empire repays loyalty and honor?”
“Who else would dare attack the basilica?” Liz asked him. “Who but your band of rebels has the courage for such a move?”
“Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences for turning your back on Napoleon Alexander?” He laughed. “I lived through Domination Crisis Fifteen, and I tell you it is a terrible thing to awaken that man’s belligerence. You have tried to wrest the world from him, and—no matter how nob
le your intentions—you should be asking yourselves if all you’ve really done is to awaken a giant.”
Liz’s eyes narrowed. Alexander did seem the more plausible culprit, but only concrete proof would convince Sullivan that Justus could still be trusted. From what she had seen of how Drake had been hit and the amount of blood he had lost, she didn’t expect him to survive the night. She unclipped Ignis and brought it to life so that all would see and remember who she was—what she was. And then she stepped up to the emperor and whispered, “I’m going after the shooters. You are right to restrain him, but I’m asking you not to do more until I can bring you proof. The Romans did not fight this way—my heart tells me it is Alexander.”
“You’ve seen men die in battle,” Sullivan whispered back. “You know the look of one who lives, and who dies. Will Drake survive?”
For a moment she considered lying to him to keep him calm, but in the end she chose the truth. It was cold and hard, but the emperor needed to hear it and prepare for the inevitable. “No.”
“Then I must gather the rest of the High Council and tell them what has happened,” Sullivan said. “If this is Alexander, it demands retaliation.”
“Will that meeting include Councilor Holt, sir?”
Sullivan hesitated for only a moment before nodding, “Yes. I will need him now, in the face of this. Perhaps seeing how far Alexander will go might make him see reason as well. Bring me these assassins, Chief Aurora—or at least what’s left of them when you are done. The internal politics of the High Council will keep for another day.”
Liz stole one more glance at Justus before she left, and she saw genuine fear on his face. It was enough to convince her he had not given the order, but the possibility that some of his men had taken action on their own must not have escaped him. For his sake, she hoped that was not the case.
