by J. L. Lyon
“No, Scott,” Holt said. “But neither is turning a blind eye to our own wrongs and keeping the people of the world in bondage.”
Sullivan waved his hand in exasperation and started to walk away.
Holt called out after him, “Where are you going? We must tell the others about Councilor Drake!”
“You do it then!” Sullivan snapped. “I’m going to help our Chief of Command make certain that our friend’s death does not pass without retribution.” The emperor disappeared through a doorway, leaving Councilor Holt to stand alone in the deserted hall.
-X-
The sky darkened as the day waned, and General Ellis Crenshaw watched from the shadows while an army of men constructed the raised wooden platform to which Grace would soon be strapped and burned alive. They worked diligently as the hours passed, eventually joined by more who built another platform alongside. The second was raised higher to give its occupants a good view of the victim on the pyre, leaving Crenshaw with no doubt that it would be where Napoleon Alexander himself would watch. The scene was turning out to be a mirror image of his sister’s death.
But it would not end the same, he vowed that much. His guilt at sending Eli back into the dangers of the World System had only grown as the day wore on, until at last he could think of nothing else but finding some way to save the two children he had sworn oaths to protect. In all probability neither would see the next sunrise, but he would make sure the World System paid dearly for it in the currency of blood and men.
“I had a feeling you would be here,” a woman’s voice whispered close. So close, in fact, that Rosalind could have slid a dagger between his ribs before he could gather his wits to stop her. She was the kind of woman to do it, he had no doubt, if not for the fact that the two were allies...at least for the moment.
She lowered the black hood that had allowed her to blend nicely into the shadows, and Crenshaw wondered for the thousandth time who she had been before the fall of the Old World. Only certain sorts of people learned to move with such soundless grace, and most not for savory purposes.
“Senator,” he nodded cordially. “I thought you would be back on your island by now.”
“My island is no longer a place where I find welcome,” Rosalind said in her thick British accent. “No more than your land welcomes you. But if it is to Domination Crisis Eleven that you refer, my business here is not yet done. I am afraid I have grave news.”
“A drop of water in the ocean, Ros,” he replied. “No tidings could be worse than what they are building in that Square.”
“For you, perhaps,” she nodded. “But the cause has been struck a blow larger than the loss of one young woman, invaluable though she may be.” She paused long enough to take a deep breath. “The Right Hand is dead. Shadow Fall has failed.”
Any other day the news might have hit Crenshaw hard, but as he had little room for additional cares, he shrugged. “It was a risky plan from the start, we all knew that.”
“You know what this means, General,” Rosalind pressed. “One plan fails and another must be put into action. The extraction team will arrive tonight, and they will take the Shadow Soldier out of play.”
“Tonight will be too late for your team,” Crenshaw said, gazing back over his shoulder at the nearly completed execution stand. “When the pyre burns he will either be dead or with me.”
“We’ve been through this before, General. The boy is too dangerous to be left to his own devices. The Senate is nervous about him, and I doubt they would be comfortable even with you as his guardian.”
“I’m not interested in their comfort, Rosalind,” he said, drawing Renovatio anxiously as a group of soldiers marched too close. But they paid the two of them no heed, and he returned the weapon to its holster. “My nephew is not a chess piece to be moved at the will of politicians.”
“He is whatever we say he is,” Rosalind snapped. “Keep in mind, dear Ellis, that you would be nowhere without us. When the Republic made contact you had spent ten years and change searching for your nephew and his father’s fabled weapon, with no success. If not for the Right Hand you would not even know he is alive. Be grateful for that.”
“Grateful?" he said darkly, staring into her eyes. “I have done everything your Republic has asked of me, Rosalind. I watched from afar as my nephew suffered in the hands of Great Army trainers. I orchestrated the upload of the virus at the mainframe port, then had Jacob blow up the Weapons Manufacturing Facility to cover it up. I altered the formula of the World System’s Solithium and had Grace smash the stores, so that the next shipments would be contaminated and your shutdown signal would cripple the power grid. Then I had her upload your pirate program on top of the Communications Tower to seize control of the System’s satellites to broadcast that signal.
“Three missions, three successes! And you promised that at the end of all this I would have my nephew back. But then your guy fails and you want to go back on your word? No,” he shook his head vehemently. “You know what I am, Rosalind—who I am. And you know I will not let you take that boy from me.”
“He is not that boy anymore,” she said, and he hated the pity in her voice. “He may have your sister’s blood, but he is not her. He is not your father. He is not his father. He is Napoleon Alexander’s creation now, you must see that!”
“All I see is yet another group of politicians playing God with the fates of men,” Crenshaw replied. “How quickly you all change your tune. First he was your savior, and now he is a threat to your very existence. Tomorrow the winds may change again. But until then you warn your men that if they intend to take my nephew by force then they can be prepared to kill me first.”
“You have no armed force,” Rosalind said. “The whole of Silent Thunder has retreated to the Wilderness.”
Not the whole, Crenshaw smiled to himself. The 2nd remains. The 2nd will always remain. But Rosalind didn’t need to know that.
“I hope you’re not planning anything foolish,” she said, gazing off toward the Square. “The full force of the Great Army in Alexandria will be here, not to mention countless civilians. You would risk all for the life of one girl?”
“Not just a girl, Rosalind,” Crenshaw shook his head. “Never just a girl. And that’s another thing you and your friends don’t understand. Loss is not measured in numbers. It is borne here,” he placed a hand over his heart. “Tonight I fight not only for her…I fight for my nephew who will be lost without her, and for the rebellion that will crumble after her death.”
“She is aptly named, then,” Rosalind said. “They both are. Shadow Soldier and Shadow Heart, who will cast their darkness upon us all. You are a fool if you do this. Let the girl die, and our people will get your nephew to safety.”
“We’re done here, Ros. The most foolish thing I ever did was trust in you and your Republic. I should have stepped in when first I learned of Eli’s survival, but you convinced me it was in his best interest to remain with the World System. But you didn’t care about him…never him. You cared about your plan, a plan that now lays in ruins. So you go back to your islands and you tell your colleagues that we want no part of them. You tell them to retract their claws from my country and let us see to our own. You’ve caused quite enough damage.”
“You are naïve if you think your words will accomplish such a thing.”
“I never speak words that I am not willing to back with my Gladius,” he said. “Now get out of my sight, and pray we never meet again.”
“As you wish, General,” she replied, back to her aloof and light-hearted tone. “But before I go, there is one more thing. If you survive this folly of yours tonight it is likely you will be contacted by the man responsible for the resistance.”
“I thought you just said the Right Hand was dead.”
“He is,” Rosalind nodded. “But the Right Hand was second to another. Deception is the best form of concealment. As the head of the resistance intelligence cell I’m sure you can appreciate that. Therefore t
he Right Hand disguised his leader by claiming him as one of his recruits.”
Crenshaw knew before she spoke it. Three arms of the resistance; he led one and Jacob Sawyer had led the other. That only left…
“The Benefactor,” Rosalind said. “The man who supposedly runs your supply network actually runs the entire resistance. The Right Hand was his creature, though I understand he changed hands frequently. The Benefactor stole him from Napoleon Alexander, who snatched him away from Jacob Sawyer.”
“McCall?” Crenshaw asked, shocked. No one else fit. He was the last of the operatives who had sided with the traitors during the Sundering, and had been Jacob’s lieutenant commander before the bloody affair. His anger had burned against the man for years afterward, the lone survivor of a group who should have had none. But now, to know that he had been working with them secretly for more than a decade, that he had organized the resistance and given them a real fighting chance…he wished for the chance to speak with the man face to face. But it was an empty wish. “How did he die?”
“His was the stroke that would have put Elijah Charity on the throne,” Rosalind said. “But he failed. Still, hear me well, Ellis. You cannot fight this war on your own. You need the Republic, as we need you. But that will be a choice for you, the Benefactor, and Silent Thunder’s new commander to discuss with one another—should fate allow it. Until then I suggest you consider all that I have said, and rethink this suicide mission. The resistance may not survive the loss of a man like you.”
And I will not survive the loss of those two children, he thought. I swore an oath to their parents, one that I mean to keep. “It’s past time for you to be away, Senator. Give my regards to the Restoration Senate, and to those who claim lordship of my country in the Council of the West.”
“Farewell, General,” Rosalind said, stepping back into the shadows. “I did enjoy our time together. It has been…educational.” She slipped around the corner and was gone.
A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as the evening approached, an omen of the dark night to come. He shrunk into the shadows where Rosalind had gone, eager to report back to Davian and the brave men of the 2nd Battalion who refused to learn the meaning of defeat.
Let blades clash, he thought, remembering one of Jonathan Charity’s speeches from long ago. Let shields break. And when the dawn comes again may we stand victorious. Fear not the night, my brothers of the sword! Come what may, the sun will still rise tomorrow.
42
AN OMINOUS GRATING OF steel echoed through the hollowed tunnels of the palace dungeon as the door closed behind 301 and the prison guard. Looking from side to side as he walked slowly toward the end of the cell block, 301 saw that all were empty save the last—though it would soon become vacant as well.
Grace was huddled in a corner with her head resting on her knees when 301 first caught sight of her. She didn’t move or acknowledge their presence, and 301 hesitated. He knew why he had come, despite the risk of exposure it posed, but he needed to talk to someone about what had happened...someone who could understand.
But Grace had a way of seeing directly into his soul that made him vulnerable, and if she suspected what he was planning she might try to stop him. Best, perhaps, if he left his questions unanswered.
Just as he was about to turn and go back down the tunnel, she caught sight of him and jumped to her feet. “I knew you would be here…but you should not have come.”
301 turned to the guard, “Give me a few minutes alone with her.”
The guard balked, “Napoleon Alexander ordered that no one should be alone with her, not after—”
“Get out!” 301’s shout echoed off the walls, and the guard departed without another word. As soon as he had gone 301 stepped up to the bars and spoke softly, “We don’t have much time, so I’ll not waste it. I can’t face tonight without you knowing that I…I remember.”
“Remember?” she asked. “Remember what?”
“All of it,” he replied. “My parents, Crenshaw, the Silent Thunder base…and you. I remember it all. I am Elijah Charity, Grace—that boy you mourned all those years ago—and I need you to remember me that way…as Eli, not as 301-14-A.”
“However I see you it will not last long,” Grace said. “I have only hours left to live.”
“I will come for you, when you are on the execution stand,” 301 promised. “You must be ready to fight your way to safety while I create a diversion to cover your escape.”
Grace’s eyes widened with fear, “You can’t, Eli. You’ll be killed. We both will be.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But you gave your life for mine when you should never have had to, so now it’s time to put things back they way they should be. I made a mistake, and I won’t let you die for it.”
“What about your life?” she asked. “Do you think it is worth any less than mine?”
“No one ever need know that Elijah Charity survived,” he said. “Let them remember the System soldier who gave all he had to save a rebel slave. You will know the truth, and that is more than enough for me.”
“You can’t do this, Eli,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes. “I won’t let you.”
“I didn’t come here to give you a choice,” he said. “I just came so you would understand.”
“This isn’t just about who lives and who dies,” she shook her head. “If that was the case I would gladly have taken our chances and fought Specter down in the underground. But I didn’t give myself up simply to save your life, Eli.”
“Then why?” he asked. “What stake could possibly be higher?”
She stepped forward and slid her hand between the bars to touch his arm. The warmth of her touch spread through his body in an instant, but as he looked into her eyes—brimming with a passionate fire—he knew it was her words she wanted him to focus on now. “You are more than this,” her hand slid down his arm and her fingers entwined with his. “We are both more than this. More than flesh, more than bone, more than the blood that flows through our veins. These bodies are ours, but they are not us. They will die, but we will go on…to eternal glory or eternal ruin.”
Something tugged at the edge of his memory, “You’re talking about the religion of the Elect.”
“I’m talking about you,” she said. “And about me. Whatever happens, whatever you think you can accomplish tonight, I am likely to die. You have to let me go, 301, and live to discover the truth of what awaits us on the other side of death. Do that, and though we are separated for a time, we will be reunited one day. But if you die tonight, we might never be together. Ever.”
“There is no life after death, Grace,” he insisted, though his old memories filled that statement with doubt. “There is only right now. There is only this one chance to save you, and if you think I won’t take it because of some superstitious belief you learned in the Wilderness then you can forget it.”
“It was your father’s belief,” Grace said. “Your mother’s…my father’s.”
“And a load of good it did all of them,” he said bitterly. “Turned to ash while the man responsible sits high upon a throne. You tell me, Grace—if that story about the King and his Kingdom is true, if there really is a prince who died to save the unrepentant rebels and cares about justice and mercy—why does he allow a man like Napoleon Alexander so much power? Why does he not strike the man down where he stands?” 301 shook with anger as he thought of the injustice, the horror of that moment when his mother faced her death in the flames. Now history was to repeat itself, and he knew that if this King—this God—did not save his mother, then he could not be counted upon to save Grace either.
“You have embraced your identity and recovered your memories,” Grace said. “And yet I see that you are still as lost as you ever were.”
“That man who warred against himself is gone. I have a part to play here, I understand that now. I hope one day you understand, too.”
“Yet you still try to hold both hatred and love i
n your heart. You hate Alexander for what he has done to you…for what he has forced you to become. And in that same breath you claim to love me.”
“I do,” he nodded. “Why else would I do this?”
“You can hold both for a time,” Grace said. “But they can’t coexist forever. Eventually one will win out, and when it does there may be no going back.”
“My hate will only last as long as its object.”
Grace surveyed him with a cool gaze, and when she spoke she did so quietly, as though speaking of sacred things. “There was once a woman loved by two men. They were friends, partners of a sort, and they all three met in a time of great turmoil and pain. Both men bore hatred for the cause of their pain and sought to avenge themselves with the blood of those responsible. Because of this, the woman rebuffed the affections of both. In time, however, one of the men came to know the King, and his desire for revenge slowly subsided in favor of justice. He rid his heart of hatred and as a result found it left more room for love, love which he lavished upon the woman. Eventually they were married. The second man, however, did not give up his hatred. And when the time came and he had his vengeance, his hatred did not die. You see, he had lived off his hate. Without it he was nothing; he lived for nothing. So he found a new hatred, a new path of vengeance.”
301’s heart sank, “The woman and his friend.”
“Yes,” she said. “He turned upon them, made war against their friends and allies, and went against everything he had once believed in to destroy their love, which became a reminder of his failure. In the end, after her husband had died, he oversaw the brutal murder of the woman he had once professed to love. Hate is a poison, 301, and love will not even the balance. Your love for me is made weaker by your hatred of him.”
“That story,” 301 said, almost afraid to ask. “Is it true?”
“It is your parents’ story,” she replied. “Their tragedy.”
“And the man?” 301 asked in a whisper, barely audible enough to hear.
Grace hesitated for several seconds, obviously considering whether to tell him. 301 felt as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff preparing to jump, not knowing if he could survive the fall.
