by J. L. Lyon
“But it is hardly a tempting target,” Grace said. “We need a symbolic victory, not a consolation prize.”
“Then second is Anchorage. Its distance from the rest of the cities means it has greater autonomy. They call it the Forgotten City, but because of the lack of World System interest you might find it difficult to galvanize the population to support you once Alexander sends the Great Army and Specter to reclaim it.”
“We would never make it that far north, and it is too far from the center of power for the kind of message I want to send. Come on, Crenshaw. Which city would you take, right now?”
The general attempted to hide his boyish grin but failed. The anticipation of some glorious adventure shone brightly in his eyes, “The Corridor. I would take the Corridor.”
“You’re joking,” she said, imagining this was some way to dissuade her from her goal. “The Corridor is the second most fortified division on the continent, surpassed only by Alexandria.”
“Which is what makes it such a tempting target. If we can conquer the city from within, those fortifications will protect us when the Great Army comes to retake it. The east coast cities are too well protected by the System’s navy at Carolina and Havana. To hold one, it has to be one that can only be attacked by land.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Grace asked. “Go in to Corridor North and make our way south?”
“No,” Crenshaw rose and moved to the controls, bringing up the map of the continent. Grace wasn’t sure what to think. It had been a long time since she had seen him so excited. “It must be Corridor Prime. Rule of the entire division hinges on it, and we will need it all.” He pointed to the map. “If we are successful, you will effectively cut the MWR’s continental holdings in half, further isolating Waypoint, Pacifica, and Vancouver from Alexandria. Simultaneously, it will provide us a base from which to solidify our hold over the Wilderness expanse between the Corridor and the east coast divisions. In one stroke you would control a quarter of the continent.”
Grace studied the map, overcome with a thrill at Crenshaw’s plan. If it came to fruition, she would no longer just be commander of Silent Thunder. She would rule one of the greatest cities in the world. From there, her father’s dream of dismantling the World System could become a reality.
“How would we do it?”
Crenshaw grimaced. “That’s the part you are not going to like. But it has to be done. Otherwise, this will never work.”
The thrill in Grace’s chest suddenly died. She had no desire to become a murderer. She had killed, but only in the heat of battle, when the men who had tasted Novus Vita would gladly have killed her given the chance. But when she had defeated Derek Blaine on top of the Communications Tower, she relented. He was her enemy, the man who had killed her father, and he deserved to die. But somehow, in that moment, she felt that killing him while helpless would place a terrible stain on her soul. Now she had that same inkling again.
Crenshaw must have seen the hesitation in her eyes, “You wanted to take a city, Grace. This is the price that is required. The only question you need to answer is whether or not you are prepared to pay it.”
She shut her eyes. What would her father have done? What would he have wanted her to do? The answers to those questions would probably be very different. Before the past year—before Eli—she might have objected to this course out of some idealistic moral high ground. But she had grown up since then. She had learned that the world was a ravenous predator seeking to devour such idealists, and the longer she tried to keep her hands out of the muck, the longer her people would be slaves.
Sometimes freedom demanded more than just blood.
“So we go, then,” she said. “I’ll send word to the officers to move out for Corridor Prime. We can send scouts north to search for Aiken and his team—and to retrieve the fragment, if the 1st Battalion failed.”
“The Spectorium is still tracking us,” Crenshaw said. “What do you propose we do if they come down on us as we reach the river?”
Grace shrugged, “We’ll have to face them eventually. Better to choose the field than have it chosen for us.”
“It will be a bloody battle.”
She sighed, thinking of all the sacrifices to come, “They always are. Let’s just hope they bleed more than we do.”
12
DEREK BLAINE STARED OUT over fields of blackness, eyes boring into the Wilderness night with determination and spite. From his position on the precipice he would have been able to see for miles during the day, but at night all was hidden. She was out there somewhere, and every moment she managed to elude him was yet another mockery. To have come within reach of his year-long goal and come up with nothing…it took all his self-control not to unleash his fury on the rest of the Spectorium.
After all, he had lost her. He had hesitated, wanting to relish the moment of her end. The fault was his own. And though he wanted nothing more than to charge after her and end this in one final, bloody battle, the tactician recognized what an error that would be. So far as he knew, the Spectorium’s numbers were about equal to Grace Sawyer’s remnant—perhaps even a bit less. He might be willing to take his chance with those numbers, but every man in the Spectorium had only trained with the Gladius for a year. They were the best that Specter had to offer, but they were no match for the seasoned veterans of Silent Thunder. No, he needed to catch Sawyer again alone or in a small team. Only an intimate, personal encounter would do.
“Grand Admiral.”
Derek turned at the sound of the voice, and motioned for Specter General Marcus to approach. The long scar given by Pax Aeterna cast his face in a sinister shadow, a constant reminder of their captain’s betrayal. Of the original ten—excluding Aurora, who had defected with Sullivan—only he and Marcus had survived that night in the Central Square, and Marcus only barely. The Specter Captain had permanently disfigured him, and Marcus saw no difference between the man who had led them and the one who had betrayed them.
While Derek hated Grace Sawyer for how she had manipulated and changed 301, Marcus just hated 301. It led to a strain between the two of them at times, as Marcus knew he and 301 had been close toward the end. Even now, a year later, that gaze seemed to challenge him, How could you not have seen it?
“Orders, sir,” Marcus said as he stepped onto the metal platform and brought Derek’s solitude to an end. “From Alexandria.” Marcus handed him a thin blue folder.
Derek took it and removed the sole sheet of paper from within, then held it up to catch what light streamed up from the camp below. His frown deepened as he read the three hastily scrawled lines, “You’ve read this, I presume?”
“Yes, sir.”
Great Army reports enemy incursion in Division Two. Spectorium to proceed north to engage with all haste. MWR.
Derek crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the darkness. When he turned back, Marcus stared at him open-mouthed, “Sir, that order came from the MWR. Surely you don’t intend—”
“To disobey?” Derek finished. The thought had crossed his mind. The job of Grand Admiral had not turned out to be the life of glory he had always imagined. All he wanted was to take the Spectorium and drive it straight into Silent Thunder’s heart, but his responsibilities kept calling him elsewhere. The Great Army, Specter, the Spectorium…all looked to him to create some master plan to overcome their enemies. And he had them—genius maneuvers that Liz would never see coming, to break the Imperial Guard and throw them back into the sea. From there Sullivan’s Empire would be ripe for destruction.
But Napoleon Alexander held him back. When Derek demanded an explanation he would only make some excuse about “drawing them out,” which made no sense. They already were out, and knocking on their door! Even after Rio, Alexander refused to unleash him on the Conglomerate. Derek was beginning to think the man insane. And now, when he was on the cusp of taking his vengeance, Alexander called him—not south, where the Imperial Guard had massed, but north.
�
�How many men did we lose in the Imperial attack?”
Marcus stared at him blankly, “Rio, sir?”
“No,” he snapped. “The attack in the north.”
“There were no Imperials there.”
“No Imperials? Then who? Silent Thunder?”
Marcus shook his head, “Perhaps it’s best if you see for yourself.” He pulled a circular device from his pocket and laid it flat on the platform between them. He turned it on and stepped away. Derek squinted as the device projected white light up to eye level and displayed a picture as clear as any view screen. The recording began to play, depicting a line of soldiers marching in formation along a Wilderness road. The Conglomerate had not yet threatened Division Two, so patrols of the Wilderness there were still common.
“They were sent to investigate an anomaly on the coast,” Marcus explained. “A blip that looked like a massive landing, and then—nothing. Almost like our satellite feed had been jammed.”
The line of soldiers suddenly broke into chaos, a teeming mass of bodies and gunfire. Smoke enveloped them, and the camera fell sideways and slammed hard into the ground. Derek supposed that it had been attached to a man’s body, and the fall recorded his death. The recording, however, continued to play. There was no sound, but Derek could almost hear their cries—screaming in the midst of a battle where death was the only certainty.
Then he saw it: a flash of familiar white light shone through the smoke, deflecting the bullets of the soldiers as they turned to them in vain for salvation. The white light sliced into them, one-by-one, and it was over in seconds. Bright lights on the edge of the screen told Derek that the battle still raged elsewhere, but here—before this warrior—it was over.
For a moment the smoke cleared, and while Derek couldn’t get a clear look at the man, he could see his weapon: diamond armor, for certain…but not like any Spectral Gladius he had ever seen. It was wider, curved, and sinister.
An arm lifted suddenly in front of the camera—the man who held the recording had drawn his gun, and fired at the unsuspecting warrior. The bullet hit him square in the chest, and Derek expected the man to go reeling backward. But white light spread over his chest instead, absorbing the bullet and leaving him unharmed. The warrior approached the fallen Great Army soldier and swung his sinister blade. There was a flash of white light, and then a black screen with red letters: Transmission Terminated.
The device went dark, and Marcus retrieved it from the ground. Silence stretched between them for over a minute, as Derek absorbed the implications of what he had just seen.
“How many others have watched this?”
“The whole of Central Command will know by now, sir,” Marcus replied. “This was broadcast over the public channel.”
Derek nodded. He expected as much. They had no doubt formed the same conclusions that were running through his mind. Blades of that type were only used by one group—a group that was supposed to have been eliminated during the World System’s rise to power. We once thought the same about Silent Thunder, he thought grimly. Now look where we are. But then again, it could be a ploy from Sullivan—a clever one, he had to admit. The unexpected always gives birth to fear, and fear is a powerful weapon in the hands of an enemy. But the Great Army had no choice but to respond, because if it wasn’t Sullivan, that meant an even older, darker threat than Silent Thunder had returned from supposed death.
That blade was a scimitar, exactly like the ones used by the Persian Empire. But even during their Resurgence they had used only steel blades. This had been a Spectral Scimitar, infused with diamond armor. If indeed this was the work of Persians, that meant they had discovered Perfect Light technology. He thought of the bullet shattering against the white light on that man’s chest, and shuddered. They hadn’t just discovered Perfect Light. They had mastered it. Spectral Armor, a longtime dream of armies but never a reality, had been what thwarted that soldier’s bullet. An invading army with that kind of power would be unstoppable.
“What’s your assessment, Specter General?”
“The war just changed, sir,” Marcus said grimly. “Persia has landed on our northeastern coast, and they have technology that far outstrips ours. We could be looking at the beginning of a Second Resurgence.”
Derek cringed. The Persian Resurgence had nearly destroyed the world. It might not survive a Second. “When was this taken?”
“Five hours ago, just east of Montreal’s limits. They landed on a Wilderness coast and are traveling inland at a rapid pace. We believe they are headed south.”
“To Alexandria.”
“Yes, sir.”
No wonder Alexander gave the order for his return. The Persians had been powerful adversaries without Spectral weapons. Now that they appeared to have advanced ones, they might represent the single greatest threat that the World System had ever faced. Greater than Silent Thunder…greater than the Imperial Conglomerate, perhaps.
He looked back over his shoulder to the dark horizon, the black Wilderness that hid Grace Sawyer in shadow, and his heart thumped wildly. She was close, he could feel it…so close that he almost believed he might catch a glimpse of her if he just looked hard enough. He couldn’t abandon the hunt. Not now. Not for anything.
He turned and began to descend the winding path from the cliff-face, Marcus hot on his heels. “I need a line to the generals in Divisions One and Two, as well as whoever we left in charge at the Specter Spire.”
“Specter General Thorne.”
“Yes, him. Establish a link with all of them at once. I hate having to repeat myself.”
Marcus relayed Derek’s orders into his comm as the men neared the base of the cliff. With any luck the transmissions would be active when they reached the communications center. Marcus finished the call and hastened to an even walk with him, “What are you planning to do, sir?”
“The MWR wants this new threat eliminated. I mean to see it done.”
“Personally?” There was a note of hopefulness in the Specter General’s tone, dashed when Derek did not answer. “Sir, I feel it is my duty to advise—”
“I have a pretty good idea what you would advise, Specter General,” Derek replied. “But the command here is mine, not yours.”
“But, sir! Any order from the MWR is—”
“Ill-informed,” Derek interrupted again. “The MWR doesn’t know what we found here. He doesn’t know how close we are. You saw that missing piece of wall, Marcus. The rebellion is looking for something, and they were willing to sacrifice those men to get it. Whatever it is, we can't remain in the dark. If we leave here now, we lose our chance to stop them for good. And that chance might not come again.”
“Disobedience to a direct order from the MWR is treason, Grand Admiral!”
“The MWR is just a man, Marcus. Just like you…and just like me.” The words rang in his ears, an echo of the day 301 had spoken them when leaving the Collins Estate. Derek had thought him mad, then, to challenge the most sacred of constants in the World System. But he had been right. A title didn’t make Napoleon Alexander greater or more divine than any other man. And men make mistakes.
But that was something a loyal zealot like Marcus would never understand.
“Grand Admiral, if you go through with this…”
Derek stopped and turned to face the Specter General. Marcus was a bit older, but Derek had the advantage of height—not to mention rank. He fixed the man with a cool stare, “What will you do? You know I won’t go quietly. Which man here do you think can stop me once I draw my blade, Marcus? You?”
“You can’t stand alone against the entire Spectorium.”
“No,” Derek smiled. “I trained them too well for that. But many would die before that fatal blow landed on me.” He took a threatening step toward Marcus, “Challenge me, and I promise you: you’ll die first.”
Derek let his stare linger until Marcus backed down, averting his eyes and frowning in anxious indecision. He was cowed, for now…but his reaction served
as a preview for what he would find with the generals. Their faces were already on-screen when he and Marcus arrived at the communications center.
“Generals,” he nodded to the five men—two each from Montreal and Alexandria in addition to Thorne, who represented Specter. The two from Alexandria he knew quite well: Dryfus of the Ninth and Wilde, who had assumed command of the still-depleted Fourteenth.
“Pleasantries will not be necessary,” Derek said by way of introduction. Since his ascension some had spurned him, while others excessively sought his favor. The first he was used to, having to constantly overcome the notion that his father’s name was all he had to offer. The second was relatively new, and if truth be told he favored disdain over bombastic praise. At least he knew what to expect with those who openly despised him. “Tell me what you have.”
“Not much, unfortunately,” one of the Montreal generals—a favor-seeker—replied. “Satellite surveillance showed an anomaly on the coast, something that appeared to be a massive landing. I thought it might be the Conglomerate and sent a battalion to investigate. That recording is all that returned.”
“What do you make of it, Generals, this recording?”
“You’ve seen it, have you not?” Dryfus asked with barely concealed contempt. But Derek didn’t take it personally…Dryfus held everyone in contempt.
“I want to hear your theories.”
“We’re all military men here, Grand Admiral,” Wilde said. “Most with careers that stretch back to the Old World. We know a Persian scimitar when we see it.”
“Yes, but surely not a Persian scimitar bathed in Perfect Light,” Derek said. “That among several other things should cast doubt on your conclusion.”
“You believe that the man in that recording is not a Persian?” Dryfus asked.
“Let’s examine what we know,” Derek replied. “After the World System’s rise to power the MWR turned the Persian homeland into an irradiated waste. He bombed them into oblivion: no more cities, no more settlements, probably very few survivors. It would take a civilization hundreds of years to recover from what the MWR did to them, and that was only fifteen years ago.
