by J. L. Lyon
Grace looked at her arm. Beneath the trickle of blood, 301-14-A was still visible, but she didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed. If they didn't mean to enslave her, then what? What was confirmation? Grace couldn't deny that the dynamics in the room had changed at the announcement. The soldiers who held her—though they still did not let go—seemed to grow more fearful.
The third soldier stowed away his device and stepped up to her, back straight and hands behind his back. “I am now going to order my men to release you. If you follow me, you can go to your confirmation with dignity. If you attempt escape, we will drag you there. Do you understand?”
Grace hesitated, now convinced that “confirmation” must mean execution. They had tested her blood to confirm her identity, and now they would execute her as an enemy of the state. This was, of course, what she had expected all along, and was far more preferable to her than slavery.
She nodded slowly, “Yes.”
The soldier nodded at his men, and they let her go, leaving imprints on her skin from how tightly they had held her. She rubbed her arms to remove the feeling of tension.
“What of the woman who was brought here with me? Will she also be headed to...confirmation?”
“No. Her fate has not yet been decided. You will find that we do things differently here than in Alexandria,” his words bore a tone of pride. “We weigh the consequences of our actions before taking them.”
“And where is 'here'?”
The soldier smiled, “You will soon see. Come.”
He led her out of the prison cell and she followed, the other two guards positioned behind her so that they formed a sort of triangle. Almost like an honor guard, she thought. They passed down the hallway and up a staircase that led to a large elevator with glass doors. She shuddered, suddenly aware that she was no longer in the Wilderness. She felt like a stranger in the cities, an alien whose every footfall seemed unwelcome.
The four of them fit comfortably in the elevator, and Grace briefly considered attacking them and making an attempt at escape. But with no idea where she was or even what was happening to her, she decided to wait.
She set her eyes on the floor as the elevator rose, though her gaze was stolen as they broke the surface and the world exploded with light. At first she thought her estimation of time had been wrong and day had come, but as her eyes adjusted she saw that it was indeed night. She was in a city, one so large she couldn't even see the end of it on the horizon. Buildings rose high into the night sky, as tall as those in Alexandria, and against them she could see the silhouette of an incomplete white arch. The two sides seemed to reach for one another but no longer touched—a scar from the wars it had survived.
Her heart thumped in her chest as she saw part of the city ripple. But no, that wasn't possible. Her untrained eyes just needed a moment to understand what she was looking at. Not parts of the city, but a reflection of it, in water. Now there was no doubt where she was.
“Welcome to Corridor Prime, Commander Sawyer,” the soldier said.
She barely noticed his use of her name and title, so enthralled was she with the city. “It's beautiful,” she said, and meant it.
“Yes it is,” he replied. “And what you're seeing is only half the city. That arch there was part of the Old World city. A new one four times its size was constructed on this side of the river. We are directly beneath it now.”
Grace gazed transfixed at the city as the elevator rose several stories above the ground. Alexandria had been a picture of Napoleon Alexander's new world, a world she hated. But this city was a blend of the old and the new. Civilization before the World System, before the Persians. An age before war ripped apart her homeland. It was hard not to feel the nostalgia. Were all cities like this, before Alexander reduced them to ruin?
Corridor Prime. She had found her way in after all. Not quite as planned, but she had made it, and several days earlier, thanks to the Halo. That put her days ahead of the Persian advance, though she would not be much help to Crenshaw and the others as a captive in a cell...or dead. Tired though she was, she now felt a bit of that old regret: seeing this city proved that she had missed so much of the world. Until now, Alexandria was the only city she had ever seen. She might have liked to see them all.
The elevator stopped about eighty stories above the ground, and the soldier tapped Grace on the shoulder. She turned to see that the opposite side of the elevator had opened, and she now stared down a marble hallway. It caught her off-guard to see such elegance when she had just left relative squalor, but she took it in stride. This particular building had evidently been built by the World System.
Her escort moved down the hall in the same pattern they had followed below, until they reached the opposite end and the only door. Grace paused in front of it, waiting. But the soldiers made no move to enter.
“This is the Stone Hall, the Chamber of Rulers. Even soldiers are not allowed inside without permission.”
Grace stared at the ornate carvings on the door, an image of the city and its arches, and a Latin inscription along the top that she couldn’t read. Corridor Prime certainly had more culture than Alexandria, she could tell that just from the moments she had been out of her dungeon. But it was still the World System. She could not forget that.
She pressed her hand to the door and pushed. It swung forward on its hinges and revealed a long chamber with high walls that curved up to a point in the middle of the ceiling. It reminded her of the ruins of an old church she had seen once in the Wilderness—magnificent architecture. Elegant and beautiful, carved as if by the hands of a lover.
People lined the pathway leading to the back of the chamber, dozens all dressed in the black robes of the World System ruling class. All eyes turned toward her, some with interest and others with suspicion, as she made her way forward. No sound reached her except the rustle of their clothes, which made the echo of her footfalls seem as loud as thunder.
A raised dais sat at the far end of the chamber, and upon it, a chair. No, chair was not the proper word. Throne was perhaps more accurate. It also was made of stone, carved in such a way that it seemed to rise from the dais, rather than sit upon it. In fact, on closer examination the entire room seemed carved out of a single block of stone. There were no dividing lines anywhere that she could see, though it was possible they were simply hidden in the low light.
One man stepped out from the throng and waited at the bottom of the three stairs that ascended the dais. Suddenly the vacant throne seemed strange. If she was to be condemned, it made sense that the person who normally occupied the seat would be the one to do it, especially if—as it appeared—a spectacle was to be made of the event. Perhaps it was only a ceremonial chair, meant to symbolize the absent MWR.
The man at the base of the stairs was not much older than her, and had that attractive quality about him. He had grown up in luxury, as had all the people in this room, bred as they were for government, but there was a hardness to his gaze that reminded her of the way Eli had looked at her on that first night in the palace—the gaze of a man who thought she was beautiful, but dangerous.
She came to a stop a few feet from him.
“Welcome to the Stone Hall of Corridor Prime, Grace Sawyer,” he spoke, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the chamber. “I am Jeremiah Bruce, vice-regent and acting magistrate of the Corridor. I am joined by all of the rulers of Prime, who will bear witness to this event.”
Grace nodded, “Bruce. So those were your men at the outpost. All killed.”
Bruce frowned, “Yes. Those men died following my orders. But their sacrifice will not be in vain.”
“What is a Code Zero?”
Grace expected him to order her to be silent, to show him more respect, or perhaps to just get on with whatever they had planned, but he merely smiled, “Until two weeks ago, a Code Zero was just a theory. You are familiar with Systemics, I presume?”
“The basics, yes.”
“So you know that when we t
ake our Operations Potential Exam, we are placed in a class and trained for the position we are to assume. But there are some positions that require more than aptitude. They require experience. The position of city magistrate, for example. So when a magistrate dies, as did the Magistrate of the Corridor two weeks ago, the System's central computer will choose someone as his replacement. They are promoted, so to speak, and that person's vacancy is filled by another, and so on. A Code Zero takes place when the System's central computer does not choose a replacement. Most likely because it finds no one within the city who meets its qualifications.”
Grace couldn't help but spare another glance for the empty throne, understanding now its meaning. Bruce was acting magistrate, only because as vice-regent he had been second-in-command. The actual magistrate had died.
“Magistrate LeConte was a great man, but he was getting on in years,” Bruce continued. “He succumbed to illness brought on by multiple strokes just ten days ago. We recorded his death, as is procedure. And, as is procedure, we expected the central computer to declare his replacement. But no replacement was given. In twenty-two years of World System history, a Code Zero has never happened. From the highest ruler to the lowest slave, never has a need gone unanswered.”
Bruce gazed past her, back out over the rest of those assembled, “You can imagine the conflict that followed. There were some who saw a mistake to be corrected by human intervention. Napoleon Alexander was such a one. He appointed one of our generals to fill the role. But there were others of us who saw the purpose in it, and to us the MWR's appointment was an usurpation of everything we had come to believe about the System.
“And so, war.”
Grace was at a loss for words. First a massive civil war where Napoleon Alexander lost half his empire and more, and now a rebellion within one of his most important continental cities—such a thing was unthinkable even one year ago. This rebellion was different from Rome or even the Triad before it in that these people were not trying to throw off the System's rule. Their rebellion was against Napoleon Alexander in defense of the World System. It was hard for her to wrap her head around. Still, it was clear that Alexander's tyranny was quickly ripping his empire apart.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You asked,” Bruce replied.
“I realize that,” she said. “But it seems like a waste of your time. Why not just tell me what I'm doing here?”
“Very well.” Bruce motioned to a woman in the crowd, who stepped forward to hand him a slip of paper. He took it and she stepped back into place. He held it up as if to see it better, though Grace had little doubt he had read it multiple times already. His voice echoed loudly throughout the chamber:
“In this, the twenty-second year of the Systemic Era, in accordance with the laws of Corridor Prime and the greater World System, the position of Magistrate and all associated honors, titles, powers, and responsibilities it accords, is hereby ordered and bestowed upon Two-five-seven Thirty-Z, hereafter designated A. Long may she reign.”
Two-five-seven Thirty-Z. Her slave name. She had barely thought of it in the time since her escape, but she could not forget something so momentous as the loss of her Undocumented status. She had become a part of the System, that day. She had never considered the full implications.
“Is this some kind of game?” she asked quietly.
“Perhaps,” Bruce admitted. “All I can tell you for certain is that the central computer spat out that message just moments after you crossed into the borders of this city. We believed the Code Zero was for a purpose, and it would be hypocritical for us now to reject that its end has a purpose as well.” He paused, watching her closely, and then went on. “Two-five-seven Thirty...A. Grace Sawyer. Please ascend to the throne of the Stone Hall, where you will be confirmed by the rulers of Corridor Prime.”
She looked again at the stone chair and felt some reluctance. What would it mean if she did as they asked? Would she become a hypocrite? A part of the machine she had spent her life trying to drag down? Or was this that once in a lifetime opportunity, a chance that only Providence could have given?
“What if I refuse?” she asked.
Bruce hesitated for a moment and then smiled confidently, “You won't.”
Before he even said it, she knew it was true. She could take Corridor Prime without a single bullet, without even one swing of her blade. The System itself had chosen her. What did that even mean?
She stepped forward, past Jeremiah Bruce and up the stairs to the dais. She ran her fingers over the arm of the stone chair. It was cold, hard, likely uncomfortable. A seat made of rock—a reminder that leadership was not meant to be a thing of luxury. No, this place was not like Alexandria at all.
And now it was hers.
Grace sat down on the throne, and Bruce got down on one knee, “I, Jeremiah Bruce, Vice-regent of Corridor Prime, do solemnly swear fealty to you as Magistrate of Corridor Prime, chosen under the law, and will uphold your rule so long as we both live. I confirm you.”
He remained still for a moment in silence, and Grace realized he must be waiting for her to respond. “Thank you, Vice-regent Bruce. I accept your fealty.”
Bruce rose and joined the throng. Then one-by-one, all of the rulers in the chamber came before her to swear fealty—some eager, some reluctant—each in their own way. And then the men who had brought her in—two of whom, she learned, were generals of the Great Army—were invited inside to do the same. She tried to internalize each of their names, to remember their faces. They called her many things, titles that would follow her from now through the rest of her life.
Shadow Heart. Magistrate. Lady of the Stone Hall. Queen of the Wilderness.
Supreme Ruler of Corridor Prime.
32
LIZ WAS ON HER feet the second she heard the door click, and by the time it opened she had gathered enough momentum to slam into the soldier coming to take her and tackle him into the hall. He cried out in surprise and attempted to throw her off, but she got her legs around his torso and squeezed, refusing to let go. Ignoring the complaint of her wounded shoulder, she pulled back to land a punch on his jaw, but something crashed into her side and knocked the wind out of her, forcing her to lose her grip.
The soldier succeeded in pushing her off, and she tried to rise before they could pin her down and continue whatever dark plans they had in store. But then a shout rang out through the hall, “Stop!” and everyone froze, including Liz. She knew that voice. Against her better judgment, she turned her back on the soldiers to face the source of the command, and nearly went into shock.
“Grace?” Liz straightened slowly, suddenly sure that she must have hit her head in that last fall. For there stood the commander of Silent Thunder, dressed in the robes of the World System ruling class—the very same garb she had gotten used to seeing on the Ruling Council before they had broken away. It did not have all the trimmings, true enough. Only the Ruling Council had worn the red and silver accents on their shoulders and on the undersides of their ornate capes. Grace’s uniform was almost completely black—a color she was no doubt used to, with Silent Thunder. The only exception was the World System X on one shoulder and the red, white, and blue banner of the United States on the other—a forbidden symbol in the World System. Seeing them together was somewhat disconcerting. Her cape fluttered a few inches from the floor and made her seem more regal, an enhancement she certainly didn’t need.
But when she smiled Liz saw the same woman she had survived the perils of the Wilderness with, and the smile seemed to say that they would survive this as well, “Morning, Liz. I warned them to be wary.”
Liz positioned herself so that she only had to turn her head to see both Grace and the men she had attacked. They both rose from their positions on the floor, and at a motion from Grace backed away. “What is this?” Liz asked. For the first time she saw the people who were with Grace. In the shock of seeing her in World System robes, she had barely noticed them. There were three peo
ple, a man and a woman also dressed in the robes of the ruling class, and a general.
“I am not under any kind of duress,” Grace said, anticipating the direction of her thoughts. She swept aside the cape so that Liz could see the Spectral Gladius hanging from her hip, which was as much of a confirmation as she could need. If they were trying to control Grace, then they never would have returned her weapon. As if to solidify that belief, Grace nodded to the man on her left, “General Laban.”
He slipped a second Gladius from his belt, its red ruby casing sparkling in the low light. Her Gladius. Before she could even demand its return, he tossed it to her. She caught it and noticed that the two soldiers she had tussled with took a few more steps backward. Smart, boys, she thought with a smile, testing the hilt in her hands. It felt good to hold it again, especially after that feeling of helplessness with Rowan in the woods.
Rowan, she shook her head sadly. You deserved all you ever got from me, but you didn’t need to die. Not for him.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked, allowing some of the tension to escape her limbs. “Or are we playing a really boring version of charades?”
“I have been confirmed as Magistrate of Corridor Prime,” Grace replied.
Liz laughed—cackled, more like—but stopped quickly when she realized Grace was dead serious. Her mind searched for questions, but all she could come out with was, “Wha…why—how?”
“She was chosen,” the man on her right said. “The central computer gave us her designation.”
Liz’s eyes narrowed, “But…you’re not part of the World System.”
“I was given a designation when they sold me into slavery,” Grace said. “I guess that was enough.”
“And who are you?” she asked the man.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Grace cut across him, probably in an attempt to abate the rising tension, “Liz, this is Jeremiah Bruce, the vice-regent of the city. Corridor Prime has been experiencing a Code Zero for nearly two weeks, until our arrival.”
