by J. L. Lyon
At first Grace thought Liz must have gotten the gun after all, but it still lay in the exact same place in the dirt. So what had happened? Where had those shots come from?
In answer to her question, a figure emerged from the shadows of the forest, and then another, and another, and another. Ten, all told, converging on their positions with weapons drawn, their dark green uniforms almost black in the night.
The Great Army.
One of the men, most likely the one who had shot the assassin, picked up Grace's gun and stowed it in the back of his belt. Another, she saw, had found all three Spectral Gladii.
“What do you say, boss? Clean up the rest as well?”
The soldier closest to Grace knelt in front of her and looked her over appraisingly. But her skin did not crawl near as much at this as when he paused on her arm. “Slave's brand,” he said. “Runaway, perhaps?” He leaned forward to inspect it further, and his face turned white. He pulled back and studied her again, this time in a very different light.
“No more cleaning tonight, boys,” he smiled, though it did not touch his eyes. “We are all about to become very rich. Bruce will want this one.”
“What about the other?” Another soldier asked, motioning to where Liz still lay recovering on the ground.
The leader hesitated, “Her too. Good work tonight, Gents. Bag'em and let's go home.”
As Liz's face disappeared behind a black bag, Grace understood all too clearly what this was. Great Army soldiers were often given the chance to kill refugees or take them as their own. They were not dead, which meant these soldiers intended the latter.
She was about to be sold back into her worst nightmare. Brought full circle, back into a fate worse to her than death: slavery. These soldiers had saved both their lives, but at the moment she could not find an ounce of gratitude in her bones.
The black bag slid down over her head, shutting out the world and signaling the end of her freedom.
And this time, Eli would not be there to save her.
30
SPECTER CAPTAIN GENTRY ENTERED the Grand Admiral’s private tent and stood at attention. Derek paused from his study of the holographic projection of the surrounding terrain on his table, and gave the Specter Captain his full attention.
“The transmission you requested, Grand Admiral,” Gentry said quietly, almost fearfully. “I have secured it.”
Derek stood up straight, “Good. And our attempts to get in touch with the MWR?”
“Unsuccessful. There has been no answer from Alexandria.”
No surprise there, Derek thought, though he had held out some hope that Alexander would take his call, if for nothing but the direness of the situation. But he had been trying for two days, and it was now clear that his access to the upper levels of the capital’s bureaucracy was being frozen, punishment for his insolence. No matter. I will do what is necessary given the situation. That is my prerogative as Grand Admiral. It is my job.
“Is the call ready to be transferred here?”
“Yes, sir,” Gentry said. “Untraceable, just like you asked.”
“Excellent, Specter Captain, thank you. You may go.”
Gentry bowed slightly and then left, still looking as white as when Derek had given him this assignment. He had to admit it was one of the crazier things he had done, and if Alexander ever learned of it he probably wouldn’t survive long. Still, he was the one on the ground, not the MWR, and this was a matter of strategy.
He touched the screen on his desk, and the hologram of the terrain dissipated. In its place the desk projected a two-dimensional image of an old battle-worn face right into the air in front of him. It had been a while since he’d seen the no-nonsense look that stared at him from the other side of the call, but there was something right about it, as though a circle had now been completed.
“General Gavin,” he nodded respectfully.
“It’s Chief of Command now, Grand Admiral,” the man flashed a wry smile. “Though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Yes I heard. It’s not nice to steal from girls, Gavin.”
“I stole nothing,” Gavin said amicably. “I am where I am because that’s where I deserve to be.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, though I suspect you will sing a different tune when this war is over. Where is dear Elizabeth these days?”
“Dead, so I hear,” he replied. “She turned against us, and like any mad dog had to be put down.”
“I see,” Derek nodded. Gavin had never been a good liar, so it was obvious to Derek that he was lying through his teeth. But that didn’t mean his theory that Liz was Grace Sawyer’s companion was true. “Much as I’d like to catch up, Gavin, that is not the reason for my call. I need an audience, with your boss.”
“The emperor is a busy man.”
I’m sure, Derek fought the urge to roll his eyes. This was the first conversation that had taken place between the System and the Conglomerate since the war began. The order of radio silence had been explicitly handed down from the MWR, which was what made this call so dangerous.
“I understand we have our differences,” Derek said. “We are at war. You have taken our cities, destroyed our defenses, killed our soldiers. You have abandoned everything you swore to uphold. But for now I will put that aside. What I have to discuss with the Premier has nothing to do with our war. This is a different matter, something that could pose a great threat to whoever wins between us.”
“Are you suggesting a truce?”
Derek laughed, “No. I want a conversation only, and once we hang up I remain your enemy. I will crush you beneath the boots of my Great Army, and you will bleed on the blades of my Spectorium. This changes nothing.”
“Then what do we have to gain?”
Derek shrugged, “Satisfy your curiosity. And since I know Sullivan is probably listening, it may interest him to know it deals with matters that predate the World System, and involves Persians.”
Gavin hesitated, and his eyes went blank while he obviously listened to something Derek could not hear. When the Chief of Command focused on him again, his face grew even surlier, “You have five minutes, Blaine. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
His old commanding officer faded away, and there was a two-second delay before Sullivan appeared. It had been little more than a year since he had last seen the System’s traitorous Premier, and time had not been kind. Sullivan’s face was worn with cares in a way it had not been before, and he looked much older than when Derek had last seen him. Apparently rule did not suit him as well as Alexander.
But perhaps that was because Alexander was a sociopath, and had no cares to wear on him.
World System intelligence operatives embedded in Conglomerate cities reported that Sullivan’s attempts to brand himself as the world’s savior continued to erode. His new government had encountered problem after problem, from being cut off from the System’s central computer to internal bickering among the former Ruling Council members. In the last report Derek had read before disappearing into the Wilderness after Grace Sawyer, he learned that Christopher Holt had ‘resigned’ and been returned to his old ship, Infallible, there to serve out the rest of his days as a relic to times lost past.
Resigned, in the terms of Old World politicians, really meant forced out. Holt had been one of the driving forces behind the election of the Citadel, the first democratically elected governing body since the fall of the Old World. Derek couldn’t blame Sullivan. The thought of that many politicians, all scrambling over one another for their piece of the pie, made him cringe.
If ever he had doubted what those reports insisted, that Sullivan’s fledgling government was on the verge of political and economic collapse, he believed it now. It made him wonder why the MWR delayed a crippling attack straight to their heart.
“Premier,” Derek bowed in mock deference.
Sullivan winced at Derek’s use of his old title, but did not correct him. It would have made him appear we
ak. A true ruler would not need to tell people who he was. “Blaine. This is not a call I could ever have anticipated.”
“It’s not one I ever thought to make, either,” Derek said. “But unfortunately you might be the only one who can help me.”
“I don’t have time to help my enemies, Blaine,” Sullivan spat. “As Chief Gavin told you, I am a very busy man.”
“Yes, planning the assault on Caracas, no doubt,” Derek grinned. “I’m afraid you will find them a much more stubborn and territorial people than what you encountered at Lima. Even if you conquer the city, you will never be able to hold it with the fleet at Havana breathing down your neck. You would do better to bypass Caracas altogether and go straight for Mexico.”
Sullivan smirked knowingly, “Thank you for your take on my army’s strategy, Blaine. Unfortunately I already have a Chief of Command, but if you are looking for a job...”
“No thank you, Premier,” Derek said. “I’m used to a bit more job security than I think you are able to offer.”
“You have now wasted one of your five minutes, Blaine. Perhaps you should get to the point.”
Derek nodded, “What is hidden in Corridor Prime?”
Sullivan’s eyes went blank, and he made an impatient gesture with his hand, “Is that supposed to be some kind of riddle?”
Laughing briefly in an attempt to lighten the mood, Derek answered, “No, not a riddle. This would have been before it was called Corridor Prime. Some Old World relic? A weapon, perhaps?”
Something stirred behind the old man’s eyes. Worry? Fear? Derek barely marked it before it was gone. “What makes you think I would know anything about that?”
“I know your history, Sullivan,” Derek said. “You were a Senator for the United States government for many years before the Old World’s fall...a powerful Senator, so I hear. You knew the location of the hidden US fleet, which you gave to Napoleon Alexander. It stands to reason that if there is something hidden in that city, you would know about it.”
“You assume something is there worth hiding.”
“Both Silent Thunder and an army of Persians are heading straight for it. Two of the last Old World groups, converging on the same destination at the same time. Both have gone to great pains and through considerable risk to reach it. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps if you stopped hinting and just told me what you think it is...”
“Admiral McCall told us there was a rumor,” Derek said. “Of a technology that had made a different use of Perfect Light than anything we have yet achieved. Such a weapon could be dangerous, in the wrong hands.”
“There was such a project, commissioned as our allies began falling to the Persians,” Sullivan sighed. “But you are chasing ghosts. Nothing of import was ever achieved. The research was scrapped, along with all the theories.”
Derek studied the man’s face through the projector, trying to spot a lie. Sullivan seemed to be telling the truth, but then again he was one of the better liars Derek had known.
“In any case,” Sullivan went on. “If you want to know more about that project then I am not the source you should be consulting. You would do better to ask your mother.”
An icy hand took hold of Derek’s heart, and for a moment he forgot himself. Instead of the calm, collected grand admiral he became the angry, vengeful boy whose mother had been murdered before his very eyes. He could still see it in his head, as though it had only been the day before: the screaming faces, the roar and flash of gunfire, the image of her falling like a sack of wheat, the smell of smoke...it was not the sort of thing a boy could forget.
As he had grown older he had learned to control the anger, but he had not been prepared for this. He let it show for only the briefest second, though unfortunately still long enough for Sullivan to know he had struck a chord. The old tyrant smiled deviously, and Derek’s hand twitched. He longed to put it around Sullivan’s throat and squeeze the life out of him.
“My mother is dead.”
“I’m aware of that,” Sullivan nodded. “But the dead have a way of speaking, even from beyond the grave. Perhaps you should seek your answers a little closer to home.”
“What does my mother have to do with this?”
Sullivan put on his best look of pity, “I’m sorry, Grand Admiral, but I believe we’re out of time. Best of luck to your present endeavors.”
“Wait, you can’t just—”
But at that moment the screen went blank, and Derek’s tent plunged back into silence. He slammed his fist down hard on the desk and said a few choice words about Sullivan’s mother. It didn’t do him any practical good, but it made him feel better all the same.
Derek knew better than to let a man like Sullivan get under his skin. But what if there was merit to what he said? Could his mother have been involved with whatever weapon McCall had told them about in Specter training? It seemed absurd to him, but then he didn’t really know a whole lot about his mother. She had died when he was so young, and his father rarely spoke of her.
He hadn’t spoken to his father in a long, long time, but something about what Sullivan said bothered him enough to consider calling him to ask. Perhaps his father could put those doubts immediately to rest. While he wrestled with the implications of talking to the man again, Gentry re-entered the tent. The look on his face sent everything else to the back of Derek’s mind, “What is it?”
“Sir, I was just informed by a contact within Prime that the Corridor has been under a Code Zero for ten days.”
Derek paused. Code Zero was a term few in the World System would know save for those who had been introduced to Systemics theory, a requirement for all officers. One of the less exciting parts of officer training, most—including himself—gave it only passing attention. But he remembered Code Zero because of its political and military implications. It had never happened before, but it had the potential to cause a wholesale breakdown in the System. It would have triggered containment protocols from Alexandria, which was probably why they had not been able to contact the city for a Halo earlier. Knowledge of the System's imperfections had to be kept hidden.
But he was a member of the hierarchy, and that meant he should have been told. This, more than anything before, signified how far he had fallen in the MWR's eyes.
“Do we have a status on chain of command?”
“Yes, sir,” Gentry pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “The Code Zero is over. Though not in the way we would have planned.”
Derek took the piece of paper and unfolded it. He read it carefully once, twice, and then a third time. Still he had trouble believing it. “You have confirmation on this?”
“Yes, sir. It is happening right now.”
“And still no word from Alexandria.”
Gentry shook his head, “None.”
Derek whispered a few choice curses. He might die for this, but he just might end up with a medal as well. “Then damn Napoleon Alexander. Gather my captains and instruct them to prepare for war. We must destroy Silent Thunder before this grows beyond our control.”
Gentry bowed, and it was evident from his ashen expression that he knew the gravity of this order, “Yes, sir.”
“And Gentry?”
“Yes?”
“I want three to five men from your subordinates that you trust above all others. They will follow you and I into battle. We fight Silent Thunder, but I need you to watch for the dagger in my back as well.”
“Marcus?” Gentry asked.
“Yes. He blames me for that scar on his face, and has obeyed me loyally for a year now only because it serves his best interest. He will not hesitate if he sees the opportunity to bring me down.”
“I know three Specters who would be honored in this task, Grand Admiral. However, not all of them are in my group.”
“Transfer them,” Derek said. “You have the authority.” He reached in his pocket and tossed Gentry the pin he pulled from within. “As of t
his moment, you are now a Specter General. Congratulations, Gentry.”
“Sir,” Gentry said, overcome with emotion as he looked at the pin that was a symbol of one of the highest ranks in the entire World System. “I don’t know what to say...”
“I don’t need words, but action,” Derek said. “Our enemies gather around us, and time is short. You have your orders, Specter General. Go.”
31
GRACE STARED AT THE grainy stone wall of her prison cell, tapping her foot impatiently as she awaited her fate. It was hard to keep track of time, but she guessed it had been an hour, perhaps two since she and Liz were taken from the forest. She had recognized the vibrations of a Halo as they were carried to this unknown destination, where despite her myriad questions and demands she had been treated only to silence as her captors removed the bag from her head and threw her in this room. Since then she had only seen the three-by-three space of the cell.
But at least this time she had been allowed to keep her clothes.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and she put her back to the opposite wall and tensed, ready to fight with all her being. They would not mark her for slavery again without coming away with marks of their own.
They were ready for her. The door flung open and three strong soldiers poured in, two taking hold of her arms and pinning her against the wall as the third advanced on her with the imprinting device. She felt the world closing in on her, not just because of the prospect of becoming a slave again, but because this new brand would erase the one now on her arm...the number that had meant so much to her because it reminded her of Eli.
She struggled with all her might, but it was in vain. The soldier pressed the cool metal of the device against her skin and hit the button with his thumb. She braced for the searing pain and even cried out in despair, but all she felt was a single prick.
The soldier withdrew the device and left blood to trickle down her arm. He flipped it over to study readings that appeared along the side of the device, and nodded, “She is the one. Take her to confirmation.”
