by J. L. Lyon
“Now, suddenly, they appear to the north while Sullivan’s forces are coming up from the south, with highly advanced weaponry and enough technological prowess to jam our satellite feeds. Not even Silent Thunder can do that, gentlemen. Could a group of men starving in desert caves?”
“You’re suggesting that Sullivan himself is behind this,” Specter General Thorne said. “The thought had also crossed my mind.”
Good. Then at least Central Command is not completely filled with idiots.
“A clever tactic, don’t you think? To turn our attention north while the Imperial Guard razes our cities in the south? All we are doing is taking the bait.”
“But why now?” Dryfus asked. “We have yet to move against Sullivan in the south. Wouldn’t they save such a well-planned distraction for when they truly needed it?”
Derek hesitated. That same inconsistency had occurred to him, and it remained one of the only points that frustrated his theory. Why would Sullivan do this now? As long as Alexander kept the bulk of the Great Army chained in the north, there was no need for it. There was only one explanation, though it gave him only thin satisfaction:
“Perhaps they set it in motion as a companion tactic to Rio, believing we would deal a massive counterstroke against them.”
“Or maybe,” Wilde said. “It is Persians.”
“Maybe,” Derek replied flatly. “Whatever the case, we will bury them. Specter General Thorne, you will take the entire force of Specter and block the enemy’s advance toward Alexandria. Specter General Marcus will send you the most likely coordinates once we have analyzed what we know of their trajectory. Once you engage, you will hold them there until General Dryfus and the Ninth come up behind them.
“General Crowe, take your troops south from Montreal and flank the enemy after the Ninth has engaged. If we are unable to overrun them in the field, you will harry them to the walls of Alexandria, where General Wilde and the Fourteenth will be waiting. There you will crush them and bring any survivors to me for interrogation.
“Until then, Wilde, you will hold the city. General Roberts, you will hold Montreal. I want you to send another scouting party to that landing site to see what you can find. Otherwise, do not abandon the city defenses unless called upon to do so.
“Are there any questions?”
“What of the Spectorium, sir?” Thorne asked. “I was given the impression we could be expecting you back.”
Marcus shifted his feet uncomfortably, but said nothing. Good man, Derek thought. Or cowed man, at least.
“The Spectorium is right on top of Silent Thunder, Specter General,” Derek answered. “ I won’t abandon the chance to destroy them on the merest suggestion that the Persians have emerged from their caves.”
“But if they do possess Spectral weapons—”
“There are 200 Spectral adepts within a ten-mile radius of me right now,” Derek snapped, interrupting General Dryfus. “This force, Crowe, how big do you estimate it to be, based on what you know?”
“Thirty…perhaps fifty.”
“Fifty men,” the words were sour on Derek’s tongue. “More than half the Great Army emptied from two cities, and you want more. All because of fifty men. Are you soldiers, gentlemen, or cowards?”
His accusation sparked the expected outrage in all but Thorne, who remained calm and collected as he replied, “Not cowards, Grand Admiral, just cautious. Every man here remembers what Persians could do when they only had the benefit of normal steel. Fifty Persians with Spectral weapons are more dangerous than a thousand Silent Thunder operatives. No disrespect, sir, but you weren’t alive to see the Resurgence. If you were I think you would understand.”
“Perhaps,” Derek grinned slightly. “Yet the point remains. Two divisions of the Great Army, along with Specter, should be enough to make short work of them. The Spectorium will remain on the trail of Silent Thunder. You will contact me, Generals, should the battle go ill.”
They each came back with some form of “Understood, sir,” and a moment later the screens went black. Derek turned to Specter General Marcus, whose face was pale in the overhead lights. He was afraid, Derek could see that. Not of him, but of being caught up in Derek’s disobedience.
“I will note your objections, Specter General,” Derek assured. “Should my decision prove to be the wrong one, that should isolate you from retribution.”
Marcus said nothing, but he seemed to breathe a little easier. Derek turned to leave the tent, but the frantic cry of one of the officers stopped him in his tracks. The man bolted up from his console, “Grand Admiral! I think we found them.”
Derek’s blood churned with sudden excitement, “Silent Thunder?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “One of our scouts just reported in…they have a lock on their location.”
“Mount up our forces!” He announced. “Send word to every Specter Captain to prepare his men for battle.”
“Sir,” Marcus stepped up, obviously loathe to protest after their earlier exchange.
“What is it?”
“You know we cannot hope to take them in open battle. Our numbers are matched, but our skills are not.”
“I am aware, Marcus. But Silent Thunder is not. We can use that to our advantage.”
The Specter General nodded, “What are your orders?”
“Phantom Tactics,” Derek replied. “Strike and disappear. We will harry them west until they reach the Corridor, and then crush them against the river. The first blow must be hard. Strike some fear into them.”
“I will prepare our captains immediately, sir.”
“And, Marcus…”
“Yes?”
“Tell the men that should they encounter Grace Sawyer, I want her alive. I’ll not have my vengeance stolen from me.”
Marcus blinked as though preparing to protest again, but this time thought better of it. He left the tent to carry out his orders. Derek followed him out, and stared back into the deep darkness of the night.
I’m coming for you, Sawyer. And this time, you will not escape me.
13
BOOM.
Liz jolted awake to the feel of rough cotton digging into the side of her face. The taste of bile filled her mouth, as dry and stagnant as death’s final kiss. Her breath bounced back at her from the cloth, and she recoiled. It smelled like death, as well. Disoriented, she attempted to rise. Pain shot up through her back and she cried out—it felt like hooks had been attached just beneath her skin to torture her just for moving.
BOOM.
She twisted her head around to get a look at whatever horror she had fallen into, but saw nothing. There were no hooks…only air. That’s when everything came crashing back: the lions, the cold, the darkness that took her in the shadow of that old ruin…she had been sure it was the end. She shuddered at the memory…a memory of dying.
But she wasn’t dead, so far as she could tell. Just in a lot of pain. She attempted to rise again, this time with extra care for her lacerated back. As her muscles contracted, it felt like a thousand knives digging straight into her flesh, but she pushed past it. A soldier does not know pain, her mind intoned. Pain is a catalyst for anger, anger the fuel for battle.
Despite her fortitude, the mere action of sitting up made her dizzy. It took a moment for her to realize that there were no clothes between her and the rough cloth blanket draped over her. Another woman might have been horrified by this, but she understood the reality. Her wounds were too spread out to treat without removing her clothing, and that lion’s claws had shredded them to uselessness anyway. Still, she needed to know where she was. Who had treated her? Why? What did they want from her?
BOOM.
She looked up sharply at the sound, recognizing it for the first time. Mortar shells, not far from her location but still not close enough to present any immediate danger. However, she recognized the tactic. Distant mortar shells to create the illusion the enemy was far away, while infantry snuck in like phantoms to kill the
unwary. This was the World System. More specifically, this was Derek Blaine. He had done the same thing to an encampment of her troops in South America, just eight months ago.
Continuing to work through the sharp stabs and pains that nearly made her bite off her tongue, she stood and attempted to walk. Her first few movements were stumbles rather than steps, and the beginnings of nausea brought on by both the pain and heavy medication nearly sent her to her knees. But she could not afford to wretch, for she would double over upon the ground and then might never be able to rise.
BOOM.
She needed to pause and catch her breath, to regain her sense of balance and adapt to the pain—which was not going to go away any time soon. But there was no time. They would be coming, and she needed to be ready.
Liz surveyed the tent, hoping they might have left something behind that she could use to defend herself. But it appeared they had not expected her to wake any time soon. There was nothing in the tent but her bed. They couldn’t possibly have treated her here originally, however, and she doubted they would have moved her far. There had to be a medical tent set up somewhere nearby. There she might find blades and—just as important—clothes.
She clutched the blanket to her, to protect from cold more than shame, and—careful to keep it away from her wounded back—cautiously moved the tent flap aside.
Cold air bit at her bare skin, no less cruel than it had been during her wanderings. More so now, even, since she had only a blanket to protect her. If you wanted to see me die a slow death, Gavin, you nearly got your wish, she thought, and may still.
Outside it was chaos. Soldiers ran in every direction, some barking out orders while others carried massive packs out of tents even as their comrades began to take them down. They shouldn’t have bothered. They could get new tents, but once the System fell upon them many if not most of these men would die. They would have no need of their tents, then.
Liz marked a much larger tent not two rows away from her, and guessed that must be the place she needed to go. She did her best to keep to the shadows as she slipped outside. The soldiers might be busy, but she knew of few men who wouldn’t stop to gawk at a half-naked woman. She wasn’t certain what her standing here might be. There were no guards posted outside, so either they had not bothered—which meant they didn’t know who she was—or whoever had been assigned that post had been called away in the chaos, deemed too important to watch over a catatonic girl from the Wilderness.
The black uniforms were enough to tell her that the camp belonged to Silent Thunder, which under different circumstances might have been good news. If she wanted to go through with Gavin’s assignment, this is where she needed to be. And even if she didn’t, Silent Thunder was one of the last places she could go, having betrayed the World System and been cast out by the Imperial Conglomerate.
But she hadn’t counted on dropping into the middle of a war zone while half incapacitated.
Despite her reduced abilities, Liz managed to make it to the larger tent without attracting any attention from any Silent Thunder operatives. But unfortunately, the entrance to the tent was guarded by two men. She could not approach it without being seen.
Well, she thought with a smile, There are less polite ways to enter a tent.
She made her way around to the side, away from the main thoroughfare where there was more chance she would be caught, and lowered herself to the ground. It was more challenging with her wounds than it might otherwise have been. Involuntary tears formed in her eyes as she lifted the bottom of the tent, contracting the muscles in her back. The canvas was much heavier than it looked, and she had to shift to keep its weight off her as she shimmied across the ground with only the blanket to cover her.
When she finally made it inside she let the canvas hit the ground once again, then remained flat in an attempt to catch her breath. The pain coursing through her back was so intense that she passed in and out of consciousness for several seconds before finding a tether to the waking world. Once her mind cleared she rose into a crouch to get a handle on her surroundings.
The tent was enormous, even more so than what she had imagined from outside, lit with lanterns that gave the interior an emotionally warm atmosphere—not at all like the cold lights in the city hospitals. Beds lined the side of the tent where she had entered, all currently empty. She did see some red stains on a few of them, suggesting they had been occupied not long ago. Perhaps the wounded had already been evacuated.
Luckily, she had emerged into a darker part of the tent where the light of the lanterns didn’t quite reach. She heard voices speaking some distance away, hushed but full of urgency. Accompanying noises suggested they were working on a patient. So much the better. If they were occupied, they would be less likely to notice her.
Liz caught sight of a supply chest just a few feet away from where the doctors were standing. Their backs were to it, and there were no others inside. If she was quiet, there was no reason why she couldn’t get to the supplies and take what she needed. The only problem was that she wasn’t exactly sure what to take. Something for the pain, no question. But she also needed to heal, and fast. Her wounds were probably still too serious for just Miracle Heal. She needed antibiotics and treatments to stop infection.
The doctors might tell her, but then again they might not. She still couldn’t be sure why they had brought her to their camp, and what they would do when they found out who she was.
Silent as a shadow, she crept toward the supply chest, careful to hold up the blanket to keep it from dragging across the ground. As she got closer she could make out their conversation:
“We need to wake her up, now.”
“It won’t do us any good. She won’t be able to move until we finish this up. Almost there.”
“The Spectorium is coming. We have been ordered to evacuate. You’re putting her life in danger by waiting!”
“And how much danger do you think she will be in if I leave her incapacitated? Give me one more minute.”
“I’ll get the adrenaline.”
Liz froze as the man turned for the supply chest, but the man’s attention—and hers—was stolen by the distinct sound of a slash, and then two dull thumps. Her heart dropped. She was too late. They were here.
“What was that?” the man asked, moving toward the tent entrance. “Corporal? Is everything okay?”
Liz was caught between competing desires to stop his advance and to remain hidden, but she had barely realized there was a choice to be made before the chance was stolen from her. The white spike of a Spectral Gladius appeared suddenly from the man’s back, and Liz shrunk back behind the beds. She hated to retreat, but an unarmed woman was no match for a trained Spectral-adept.
The Gladius withdrew from the man and he dropped to the ground, revealing the navy-clad Specter who had killed him. Two more stood with him, though only the one Specter had his Gladius active, probably to avoid being seen for as long as possible.
The doctor turned long enough to see the newcomers, but he did not stop his work. In fact, he continued with even greater intensity even as the Specters approached. Then he appeared to finish, cutting the excess from his patient’s cast and then turning on the Specters with the scissors raised in threat. He was met with cruel laughter as the leader—a Specter Captain, Liz saw—advanced with his Gladius held high. Liz looked away at the last moment and felt a stab of pity for the man. He died bravely, but scissors? Against a Spectral Gladius? The man never stood a chance.
“Look what we have here,” one of the Specters said, drawing Liz’s eyes back to them. He stood over the doctor’s patient, and even though she could only see half his face across a short distance she recognized that hungry look in his eyes. She shook her head sadly. The doctor had sacrificed his life to save the woman lying there, but all he had accomplished was that he would die a few moments before her. Had that been a Great Army soldier or an Imperial Guardsman, they would have understood the reality. But Silent Thunder was notorious
for dying upon their honor. It was a weakness, one that might eventually prove the undoing of them all.
The Specter reached for the woman and she prepared to turn away again, but the urgent command of the Specter Captain halted the man’s movements, “Wait.” He examined the woman’s arm and cursed. “Congratulations, men. We just earned a commendation from Grand Admiral Blaine. This is Commander Grace Sawyer.”
Liz stopped breathing. Of course. She should have figured that out for herself. Why post guards in front of a medical tent right in the middle of a major evac operation? Why post them at all, in fact, unless there was someone within who needed protecting? She wanted to hit herself, but then decided her shredded back was punishment enough. Still, she couldn’t just sit idly by and watch them take her. Sawyer was her best chance at getting in with the rebellion. If the World System took her, that chance would be gone.
Her gaze shifted to the beds behind which she hid, most shrouded in darkness, hoping there might be something there she could use to her advantage. There were several places that appeared conspicuously empty, as though there had been more supply chests only moments before. But the only thing she could see was a small bundle three beds away. In the darkness she had taken it for nothing but folded sheets, but now she thought differently. The soldiers had evidently taken everything they could claim during the evacuation save for the supply chest the doctor needed to complete his surgery. Why then had they not taken this?
She crept on all fours across the ground as the three Specters conversed about their find:
“Grace Sawyer? You sure about that, Captain? Just because she has dark hair don’t mean—”
“It’s her,” the Specter Captain interrupted. “How many girls do you think have the traitor’s designation tattooed on their arm?”
“Slave’s mark,” the other Specter said. “Not many Wilderness girls would risk being caught with one. Lucky we found her like this. They say she’s better with the Gladius than her father.”
