by J. L. Lyon
“When I give an order, Grand Admiral Blaine, I expect it to be obeyed.” The voice on the other end sent a chill straight through him. It was a talent that the man still held such power despite being hundreds of miles away. But no amount of fear would make Derek cower.
“I followed your orders, Mighty World Ruler,” he replied. “I simply delegated the particulars.”
“You’ve got nerve, Blaine,” Alexander said, his voice icily calm. “You’re the best grand admiral the World System has ever had, but that won’t save you if I decide to have you terminated. You, above both your predecessors, should understand that.”
“You haven’t decided to terminate me, not yet. Otherwise the Specter who gave me this phone would have given me a bullet instead.”
“Smarter than your predecessors, too,” he could almost hear the MWR’s smile. “I’m glad we understand one another. As chance would have it, your defiance may turn out for the best.”
“We are closing in, sir,” Derek said. “She is out there alone in the Wilderness, and when she—”
“You want your revenge, I know. I want it for you. But do not attack Silent Thunder again. I want you to track them, but you are to remain invisible. They must believe that they have escaped you.”
Derek gritted his teeth. Was he really hearing this? Was this the punishment he was expected to bear? “With all due respect, Mighty World Ruler, you made me grand admiral so I would chase Silent Thunder down.”
“I made you grand admiral so you would lead my armies,” Alexander snapped. “A task you have performed beautifully, until the last few weeks. I can’t have you jeopardize our endgame for one girl. You’ve lost sight of the big picture.”
“Then show it to me.”
“Things have changed since you’ve been tracking Sawyer, Blaine. You just haven’t been paying enough attention. A contingent of Persian warriors landed on our eastern shore, and they cut through the forces you sent to destroy them. Word is that these warriors wear some kind of special armor that makes them near invincible. They marched through two divisions of the Great Army and Specter without losing a single man, and then left them in the dust as though they were nothing but a nuisance. They didn’t turn and fight, didn’t engage the army, nothing. They cut through, and moved on.”
Derek paused, a very different kind of fear making its way up his spine, “And the men who fought them: are they sure it is really Persians, and not some hoax Sullivan has devised?”
“They are sure,” Alexander replied. “But more than that, I am sure. Men from Sullivan would have stood and fought with that kind of advantage. The Persians are not here for us, they made that clear.”
“Then why are they here?”
“We can only speculate,” Alexander said. “Though it appears they are headed straight for you.”
“Straight for Silent Thunder, you mean.”
“I assume so, yes. Silent Thunder ransacked the weapons stores of the Persian Empire at its height and forced them into the ground war that proved their undoing. They must be here to settle the score. Who knows what else they may have planned. But if we play our cards right, we may never have to know.”
Derek didn’t like where this was going, “So you want me to leave Silent Thunder alone, wait until the Persians arrive to take their revenge, and then mop up whichever side emerges victorious.”
“Do this for me, Blaine, and I will forget our earlier misunderstanding.”
Derek attempted to focus all his anger into the fist balled at his side, to give Alexander no indication of his emotions. He only succeeded by half, “Sir, when you made me grand admiral you promised me my revenge. Now you want me to just watch as the Persians swoop in to take it instead?”
“I promised we would kill every last member of the Elect, if I recall,” Alexander said. “I never promised the means or method by which that might happen.”
“Grace Sawyer is mine.”
“Careful, Grand Admiral. Don’t make me change my mind about you. Grace Sawyer is one woman among a sea of enemies, and the greatest threat she poses at the moment is that she might be the reason I have to kill you.”
“I thought you said I was the best grand admiral the System has ever had.”
“You are,” Alexander replied. “But the nature of the System is that everyone is expendable. Another truth that you should know better than most.”
Derek felt another flare of anger, though this one was far different than the disappointment at being robbed of his chance to kill Grace Sawyer. This was a much older rage, one that began on that night years ago when the one bright light in his life had been extinguished. When he had vowed to bring all of those accountable to justice.
His partner’s words echoed in his memory: I want to know who pulled the trigger. Derek knew who had actually killed his mother, but not until that moment had he taken it a step further: in the System, there was always an order behind that pulled trigger, and there was only one man who could have given this one. He had always known it, deep down, but had been content to ignore it for so long. 301 was the first one he had even spoken to about it…first, and last.
But now, it was all he could do to keep his self-control.
“I’ll be awaiting word that both forces have been destroyed.”
“How much time do I have?”
“At the rate they are traveling overland, you have a week and a half, maybe less.”
“I will relay your orders to the Spectorium.”
“Yes, you will. And Blaine? I have eyes watching your every move to make sure this plan does not go off course. Don’t try anything foolish. It will go bad for you.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Call me when it’s done.” The line went dead, and Derek handed the phone back to Specter Captain Gentry.
“The Halo?”
“En route from Alexandria, Grand Admiral. We were unable to reach Prime. ETA thirty minutes.”
Derek nodded, still in shock from what Alexander had told him. Persians. He couldn’t get it through his head. They were supposed to have been wiped out, their existence confined to the history books. Yet here they were, slicing their way through his armies and swooping in to steal his chance at revenge. But what did it mean? Were they really here to destroy Silent Thunder? It seemed a petty reason to travel to the other side of the world.
Yet they were conquerors. Everything Derek had ever learned about them—admittedly, not much—suggested this was exactly the sort of thing they would do. He needed to be ready, and so did his men. A battle was coming, very different than the one they expected, and far more dangerous.
“Gentry,” Derek began. “Relay the following orders to Specter General Marcus: disengage from Silent Thunder. Pull back all scouting parties. From this point onward we will track them by satellite only.”
“Understood, sir.”
“And after that, I need digital files of everything we have on the Persian Empire.”
22
THE RETREAT CAME AS swiftly as the attack. Lieutenant Commander Davian knelt down on one knee, numb with exhaustion as he watched the retreating forms of the Spectorium disappear into the night. That was the fifth one today, the ninth overall, and he had participated in every one.
Only a few Specters fought in each skirmish, but the nature of being on the defensive was that Silent Thunder never knew exactly where the harrying force would strike. The men were exhausted, demoralized by the loss of their commander, and despairing for the lives of the families that most had in tow.
The Spectorium would not attack them openly for fear they would be overwhelmed and destroyed. Davian had entertained the idea of digging in their heels and forcing a full-on battle, but even if they won it would come at a heavy price: likely two thirds of his warriors, if not more. Not enough to protect the civilians in their midst, much less continue their resistance.
But they were being forced westward to the wall of the Corridor, and eventually would have no choice but to turn and
fight. Better for Silent Thunder to choose the field than the Spectorium.
A shadow blocked the meager light of dusk, and Davian looked up. General Crenshaw stood there, dirtied with the grime of battle, offering him a hand. Davian smiled and shook his head. How a man twice his age could still outlast him never ceased to amaze. The general was some kind of machine, tested in the fires of the Persian War. Davian had never experienced constant battle like this. Crenshaw had, for months and even years on end.
He took the general’s hand and Crenshaw pulled him to his feet.
“Get me the count,” Davian said breathlessly. “Then form up the next defensive squadron.”
“Two wounded this time,” Crenshaw replied. “None dead. This attack was shorter, less structured. Perhaps they are growing tired.” He paused. “Our people are tired as well, Davian. We should find a defensible position and let them rest.”
Davian set his eyes on the darkness where their enemies had retreated just moments before. He hated the idea of stopping. To give up what little momentum they possessed and give the Spectorium a chance to surround them...it seemed counterintuitive. But then again, the men were stretched to their limits. A tired warrior could make fatal mistakes.
He nodded, “The scouts reported an old bridge still intact just west of here. We can take shelter there. Set a wide perimeter. I don’t want the Spectorium to catch us asleep.”
Crenshaw left to relay his orders, and Davian turned his attention west. Nothing but barren wasteland lay before them, a stark and gray contrast to the world of browns and greens that stood behind. It was like a scar upon the earth, a swath of deadness that cut through the living wild. It almost pained Davian to look upon it. This was the sign of the cities…the legacy of human habitation. He often wondered why people loved them so much. Even if the World System was one day defeated, he would still find more comfort in the wild. The trees, the open air, blue skies and starry nights…that would always be home to him, not gray slabs of concrete and gigantic buildings.
In the distance he could see a twinkle on the horizon, though the light was all wrong. It stretched across his entire field of vision in a perfectly straight line. He had never looked upon it, but he knew what it meant: Solithium barrier technology. All cities had them, though this particular one had two, one on either side of the river.
They were within sight of the Corridor.
While most cities in the World System were massive urban areas that had grown up around the original center, the Corridor was a long, narrow city that ran the entire length of the river on both sides. It grew larger in three places: on the gulf, in Corridor South; at the Great Lakes, in Corridor North; and largest of the three, almost halfway in between: Corridor Prime. The Corridor was a massive fortification made up of Solithium barriers and buildings and people…supposedly impenetrable.
In all of his time with Silent Thunder, no one he knew had ever crossed it. But in about two days' time they would reach the city's borders and attempt to do just that.
It took the better part of an hour to reach the bridge and set up camp. The open land on either side ensured that the Spectorium would not take them by surprise, and he could see on the faces of all he passed how grateful they were for the break. They had been forced to leave much behind in the initial attack, but it was not the first time. They would regather, rebuild, and continue on as they always had.
For the rest of their lives, Davian thought sadly as he nodded to a woman and her young daughter. The girl’s father had been killed in one of the recent raids, and the sadness still shone clear in their eyes. All we are doing now is surviving, for as long as we can. Is that good enough? Is that all we want?
“Lieutenant Commander!”
Davian turned quickly at the sound of the voice, tense in anticipation of an enemy attack. He found the red-faced corporal running towards him and pulled him near so he would not cause a panic, “What is it?”
“You’re needed at the command tent,” the corporal replied. “The scouts you sent back to the battlefield...they’ve returned.”
Davian nodded and followed the corporal back to the center of the bridge, where they had set up the best form of the command tent that they could manage. There was no “tent,” in the literal sense, but the equipment they had been able to salvage did provide some separation from the civilians and military personnel taking shelter outside it.
Crenshaw already waited within with the two scouts, his expression grave. Davian felt a weight pressing down on his chest, fearing he already knew what they were about to say.
“Lieutenant Commander,” the senior officer stepped forward.
“What did you find?”
“The doctor and his assistant are dead,” came the reply. “We found their bodies in the medical tent.”
A tense hush settled over all those present. “And the commander?”
“Gone. Three Specters were also in the tent, killed by a Spectral Gladius. There were signs of a struggle, as well as others that do not make sense to us.”
“Such as?”
“It seems that a woman entered the back of the tent barefoot. The tracks in the ground point to her being the one who killed the Specters. The Spectorium must have come afterward, for much of the evidence is confused. We were not able to tell how many people left the tent alive in the course of the battle.”
“I have canvassed the survivors who were in that area of the camp during the time of the attack,” Crenshaw said. “They swear they saw the commander standing alone in the middle of the path, firing upon the enemy and giving them the chance to escape. Others have mentioned seeing a blonde woman with her.”
Davian’s heart pounded in his chest, suddenly home to both hope and fear. Was it possible? When last he saw Aurora she did not look well enough to walk, much less flee in the face of the Spectorium. He had assumed the worst for her. But if she was alive—if she had been in that tent with Grace and the two of them had gotten out together—what did that mean?
He realized that the conversation had continued without him: “...knocked out with anesthetic. She would have been helpless during the attack.”
“There were syringes on the ground,” the younger scout said. “Epinephrine. Administered by the doctor, perhaps, or by this mysterious woman.”
“Yes, but where did she obtain a Gladius?”
“Perhaps she took the commander’s. It would have been close—”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Davian broke in suddenly. “Have you anything else to report?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for your diligence, men,” Davian nodded. “Now, if you will please clear the tent, there is something I must discuss with the general.”
The scouts saluted and left the makeshift command center, followed by the rest of the soldiers. General Crenshaw avoided Davian’s gaze until the others were out of earshot, and then looked at him with misty eyes, “You were right, Davian. We should have gone back for her.”
“No,” Davian said. “I was foolish. Knowing what we do now, it would have been a waste of time. We will continue with the plan she originally intended, and hope that she finds her way back to us.”
Crenshaw frowned, “You don’t think it’s time to talk about succession?”
“You heard what they said,” Davian replied. “No body. With what they found and what the witnesses told you, it seems pretty clear that she made it out. We will not speak of succession, not until it is absolutely necessary or we receive proof she is dead.”
Crenshaw studied something on the ground near his feet, arms crossed over his chest. I’ve never seen him like this, he realized. Nice to know he is subject to doubt just like the rest of us…but also, terrifying. They were depending on him for their very survival. He couldn’t give up now.
“She is alive, Crenshaw,” Davian said forcefully. “I refuse to believe anything else.”
The general nodded, obviously unconvinced. “So if not succession
, what did you wish to discuss?”
“I know who the blonde woman is.”
His eyes narrowed, “Go on.”
“I found her in the Wilderness. We came across her on the way back from our mission in the north, leading the Spectorium astray. She was cowering in the shadow of an old ruin: wounded, delirious from loss of blood and hypothermia…nearly dead. We were less than a mile from the camp at the time, and that alone saved her. I placed her in the care of a doctor who had recently defected to Silent Thunder from the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities. He recognized her immediately.” Davian put his hands in his pockets and looked away sheepishly. “I don’t know what I would have done differently had I known beforehand, but…”
“Spit it out, Davian. Who was she?”
“Elizabeth Aurora, Chief of Command of Sullivan’s Imperial Guard.”
Crenshaw pressed his lips into a thin line and for several moments said nothing, though Davian could clearly see the storm brewing behind the general’s eyes. Crenshaw hated it when people kept things from him—appropriate, since he routinely kept important information from others in the name of “protection.”
“Did Grace know of this?”
“No,” Davian replied. “I had only known for a few hours myself by the time the Spectorium attacked. I thought it best to wait until Grace was done with her surgery.”
“So it was your intention to tell her.”
Davian hesitated. He was not the worst liar, but Crenshaw—in addition to being a legendary soldier—was a dangerous spy as well. He had an uncanny ability to spot untruths, even well-concealed. And the answer was not a simple yes or no. He had wanted to tell Grace, but then there had been something else. He had felt something for Aurora—attraction, sympathy, protectiveness…he still wasn’t quite sure. What if Grace had learned her identity and cast her out? The thought had pained him, and he couldn’t have allowed that to happen so long as she was not proven their enemy.
“Elizabeth Aurora is known for turning the heads of young men all around the world,” Crenshaw read into his silence. “But I never figured yours so easy to turn.”
