seven
Wesley Cardinal
…lack of commercially available materials made explosive devices of any size rare outside the few active theaters of fighting among the two great global Alliances…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 727
He sat up in bed, breathing deeply.
The dream faded from his mind. He’d relived the embarrassing moment from six months earlier when Sheila Clarke had loudly called for his immediate termination, leading to more than a few laughs at his expense the next week. His memory had shattered years earlier; his mind could not recall what he’d done—or not done—to draw her condemnation.
He only knew that he hated Sheila Clarke.
That hatred was tempered only by the fact that he found her wildly attractive. The few wisps of the dream remaining in his consciousness suggested that the two of them had acted on the latter in that dream world.
What the hell was wrong with him?
The buzzing sounded once more in his mind.
He scowled.
His short- and long-term memory were both in tatters. He had some intangible, indescribable sense that he’d once possessed far more mental vitality than he showed in the present. That mental vitality was as fleeting as his dream world fixation on the beautiful demon-spawn known as Sheila Clarke, something others never saw. They saw only a man who talked to himself.
But he wasn’t talking to himself.
He couldn’t remember a time without the Voice reverberating inside his head. The sudden buzzing in his mind, as if connecting two mobile phones over extreme distances, signaled him that the Voice would speak. Wesley couldn’t initiate those connections. It was one aspect of the many he detested about that arrangement.
Middle-of-the-night wakeup calls were another. He wished the Voice had a silent mode he could activate.
Wesley.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes?”
It is time for you to act.
He glanced at the clock. “At this hour? It’s quite dark outside.”
It is the ideal time to act for that reason. Dress, and inform me when you are prepared to speak once more.
He wondered if he could just go back to sleep. If he didn’t respond, would the Voice think he struggled with clothes selection? Speaking of which… “What should I wear?” He didn’t know what “act” the Voice had in mind; best to dress appropriately.
Dress in your work clothes.
Wesley rolled his eyes. “My work clothes? My shift doesn’t start for another nine hours, though. If I’m just going to work, I should just go back to sleep and—”
The high-pitched shriek inside his head was like fingernails on a chalkboard, but far more potent. He screamed and grabbed his head with his hands and forearms, squeezing. This was the worst aspect of the arrangement. The Voice could activate a painful sound only Wesley could hear, and that pain delivery system meant the Voice could make Wesley do anything.
The noise lasted just a few seconds this time. It was enough. Wesley found his work clothes and dressed without further protest. “I’m dressed.”
You must pack supplies in order to complete your mission, Wesley.
He felt his pulse quicken. Annoying though the Voice might be, he—or she—had proved useful in getting him the information he needed for his podcast and for the personal education sessions like the one in the restaurant the day before. “What supplies will I require?”
Did you receive the package sent to your home?
He felt a chill trickle down his spine and sucked in a breath. He’d thought the box had been delivered as a prank, for there’d been no sender name, no return address, no markings of any kind. He’d tossed the package into his trash bin. But it was salvageable. He wondered what the Voice would do to him—and for how long—if he’d discarded the box or rendered it unusable for his mission. “I got it.”
Take the package, along with a flashlight and your lock picking equipment, and enter your place of work. I will be in contact with you again at that time.
“But what am I supposed to do when I get there?”
He heard nothing but full silence. The Voice had severed the connection.
Wesley sighed. He found a backpack, dug a flashlight out of his nightstand drawer and tested the rechargeable batteries, and then located the lock picking kit he’d gotten… well, he wasn’t quite sure when he’d gotten it or how he’d learned to use the tools. It didn’t matter. He knew, and the Voice would make use of his talents.
After a quick snack—for all he knew, the Voice would lead him directly into the hands of the police and he’d be detained for days without food—he set the alarm systems and locked the exterior door. He then headed to the trash bin and pulled out the package. He tested the weight. Then he tore the paper off the package and opened the box.
Wesley sucked in a deep breath.
The surface was smooth, a metallic material he didn’t recognize. But it was the digital readout and the activation button mounted flush with the surface that helped him understand what he was holding, and what it was he’d be asked to do.
He put the device in his backpack, inhaled the cool night air, exhaled deeply to calm his nerves, and mounted his scooter. He drove off his property to the primary roadway, with only one question on his mind as he headed for his place of work.
Where in the Bunker would the Voice ask him to plant the bomb?
eight
Roddy Light
…the inevitable intertwining of the production factories of the great corporations with the war-making organizations of each Alliance proved inevitable…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 499
Roddy had noticed the gradually deteriorating conditions and mood of the populace during his daily walks. His sense of foreboding grew, and with it his concern about his wife’s safety. They’d managed to avoid the common ostracism associated with their childless state; in a population still struggling to rebuild its numbers after the centuries of desolation, there were strong social pressures to generate many offspring. Oswald’s people had let the news leak that a childhood illness prevented Deirdre from conceiving. But this new feeling was something different, something not directed at them for their social improprieties. It was a sense and a mood that the populace’s rising anger at something might soon erupt into a state of war.
He knew that feeling all too well, and had no desire to have his wife present inside a walled city should open conflict erupt.
Three months earlier, he’d suggested that they move.
“Move outside the cityplex walls?” Deirdre’s tone crossed between horror and bemusement. “Please tell me you’re joking. Whatever threat you’re overactive imagination is seeing develop inside the walls is nothing compared to what lies outside.”
“Are you sure?” He’d seen a slight flicker in her eyes. “You notice it, too, don’t you? It’s not a coincidence that you’ve started taking that armored car—”
“I have a car and driver because Oswald Silver finds it appropriate for a key Diasteel executive to have a car and driver.” Her tone had turned chilly. “We’re not moving to the Hinterlands, Roddy. My father would be very… displeased.”
“But you’ve noticed the change in mood, the change in tone. You’ve been more skittish of late, more distant…”
“I’ve been under quite a bit of strain at work. There’s a… project nearing completion that’s quite taxing and I’ve… not been sleeping well.” Her eyes switched from gloom to mischievous, and she ran her hand down his chest. “Help me out with that?”
He’d helped.
He’d finished his daily walk. He’d left Special Forces, but he still wanted to know the goings-on in his city. He watched how people interacted, watched their faces, listened to their words. Where the gleaming towers permitted, he basked in the warm sunlight, and glanced longingly at the walls. He felt caged by walls he’d been told were there to protect him from the Hinterlands, the s
pace outside the walls where all manner of unspeakable danger rested. Roddy wondered if that unspeakable danger was freedom.
As he sat in his office, listening to the silence of his empty apartment, he recounted that conversation with Deirdre, and others like it. His suspicious mind had moved unerringly to her general nerves and fatigue to the effort to have an affair and try to hide it from him, knowing as she did that he didn’t fool easily. As he reviewed the reports about troop movements, though, he considered an alternative, one less ego-damaging but far more ominous for the world at large.
He’d made friends in his old life. Friends who had connections in the military and the government and the business world. Friends who knew that his employer was ensconced deeply in each of those areas. Oswald Silver might not be a man of evil intent, but his reach gave him power greater than any president or general.
His phone buzzed, a unique vibrating signal identifying the caller as a friend from the old life. He had sixty seconds to find a secure space where he’d not be overhead before answering. His empty apartment qualified.
“Gambit. It’s been a long time.”
He didn’t know Gambit’s real name, nor did Gambit officially know his. Given his prominence in social media due to his marriage to the only daughter of the most powerful man in the Western Alliance, he doubted his real name—or the ironic nature of his code name—still escaped Gambit’s knowledge.
“Matches, it’s never good news when we talk.”
Roddy snorted. “Truer words were never spoken.” He frowned. “You saw the troop movements?”
“Heard about it three days ago. I don’t think it’s a drill.”
“Nor do I. I think they’re prepping an invasion.”
Gambit inhaled a deep breath. “I don’t doubt that, but what makes it seem more likely this time?”
“My wife.”
“You’re married?”
“Cut the crap, Gambit. You know damn well who I married.”
He didn’t deny it. “May I ask how your wife has led you to the conclusion that East is heading our way with malevolent intent?”
“Combination of factors. She’s been working far more than ever and seems highly skittish when she’s home. She won’t talk to me about what she’s working on. She refuses to acknowledge the deteriorating mood in the plex and get the hell out of here, telling me whatever’s in the Hinterlands is far worse than what might happen here. Couple that with East’s troop activity levels…”
“You’re insane, Matches.” He could almost hear his colleague shaking his head. “Wife being busy at work means we’re going to be invaded soon?” There was a pause. “I don’t like to bring up bad news, buddy, but there’s another reason she might be acting that way.”
Roddy felt his face turn warm. “The thought never before occurred to me. Thanks for making me think about it.”
“You suck at lying, Matches.”
Roddy growled low in his throat. “Ignoring your implications of my potential marital issues, let’s consider the larger picture. Papa-in-law will have his fingers in everything. He’ll know if something’s coming. He’ll be ramping up production of war-making machines and supplies, and everyone in his direct chain of command will get pulled in to make sure they meet the increased demand. With me so far?”
“I still think you’re reaching.”
“I challenged her on the idea she doesn’t notice the changing mood in the plex. She couldn’t hide the truth; she’s noticed it. Yet she still insists we stay put.”
“So what?” Gambit sounded bored. “Daddy can put a squad of bodyguards on patrol around the clock. She’s got her big, strong, manly husband there to protect her as well. Why should she worry?”
Roddy chose to ignore the jibe. “Exactly. Why should she worry? Minor social discontent shouldn’t be enough to worry a woman who can, as you say, get a squad of bodyguards to protect her.” He paused. “And that would be the case even if we lived outside the walls.”
Gambit laughed. “So your wife doesn’t want to move, and you think that just because she doesn’t ask for bodyguards so she can move and looks skittish and has been busy—” Roddy caught the inflection on “busy” and the meaning behind it “—that it means she’s helping Daddy prepare for an Eastern invasion. That about it?”
“You’re forgetting the troop movements.”
“Roddy, you’re an idiot. They aren’t massing near their naval shipyards.”
“So?”
“If they intended to invade, wouldn’t they need to get soldiers into their naval craft to make the journey here?”
Roddy bit his lip. Hard. He tasted blood. “It doesn’t mean an invasion’s imminent, Gambit.”
“You’re getting slow, Matches. How could you miss that trivial little detail? Think they’re going to swim across the ocean? They need boats to get here. Face it, Matches. We’re heading over there.”
“What?”
Gambit laughed. “I guess you didn’t hear that little bit of intel. Our fleet has been coming in for what the upper-level brass have called ‘staggered repairs’ over the past year, and that activity has been ramping up over the past few months. I have it on good authority that our ships aren’t in port to fix leaks. They’re in port for newly outfitted weaponry.”
Roddy was silent.
“If it makes you feel any better about your crazy scheme, brother, that activity would coincide with accelerated activity at Daddy-in-law’s little empire of factories around the Alliance. Seems like something your pretty little wife might be involved with as well, eh? And… it’s something you could check out on your own, right?”
Roddy cleared his throat. “She also said that what’s outside the city is a greater threat than what’s inside the city, Gambit. What could be worse than massive social unrest? An invading army from the East.”
“Or there’s only the usual nastiness roaming the Hinterlands and nothing to discourage her from heading beyond the walls. If you catch my meaning.”
“Go to Hell, Gambit.”
“Already there, brother. Haven’t made it out yet to my eternal reward of a hot wife and a cushy, high-paying job, even if she is getting a little action on the side—”
Roddy disconnected the call.
He didn’t like the fact that he’d bugged his bedroom. He didn’t like the fact that Gambit had so easily countered each point, turning each argument for an impending invasion by the East into an invasion of the East… or evidence that his suspicions of infidelity were correct.
He’d told Gambit of Deirdre’s comment earlier, that her stressful and time-consuming project would end “very soon.” He’d taken “very soon” to mean in the next few days, perhaps a week at most.
He felt a chill running down his spine.
Deirdre’s long hours might mean she’d been unfaithful. But the evidence now strongly suggested she’d hidden a far more dangerous secret, one that threatened the lives of the millions of people on the planet.
The invasion would begin soon. He didn’t know which way the ships would sail.
Or if they’d already left.
nine
Sheila Clarke
…military possessed no visible property… widely believed to occupy standard office and factory space, with personnel dressed and acting as employees of traditional businesses rather than in obvious combat uniforms…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 51
Sheila Clarke located a small furniture cart in one of the supply closets on the fifth floor. She didn’t know why an accounting firm might have need of such a tool—perhaps hauling cartons of printed materials to client offices—but elected to leave that mystery for another day. They locked the wheels to hold the cart in place and moved to the crate.
She hesitated. “Should we open it?”
General Jamison considered the question before shaking his head. “The box itself is slick and would likely slide off the cart. We’re better off leaving it inside the wooden crate.
” His mouth twitched. Perhaps he, too, wanted the mysterious contents of the box contained within as many layers as possible.
She nodded, and glanced at the crate. “Shall we?”
After locking the wheels, they muscled the crate atop the cart. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead, quietly horrified at the sweat stain left behind. The general looked as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. Perhaps she needed to work out more often.
With the crate in place, she raised a question weighing on her. Not the question; he’d made clear he wouldn’t share more about the nature of the weapon they’d store in a secure manner. “You’re saying there’s a secret bunker inside the secret bunker?”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it before now?” She felt the perspiration continue its descent. She grabbed several tissues from his desk and used them to mop her skin dry. She glanced up at his bemused face. “Sorry.”
“Knowledge of and access to that space is on an as-needed basis only, Sheila.” The words hit her hard. He’d rarely pulled out the “you don’t need to know that” comment during their working relationship. His use of it now flustered her.
“But—sir, this withholding of knowledge from me… what if that clouded the judgment you’ve asked me to supply?” It sounded childish, and she knew it. But she thought it a fair question in general, if not in this specific case.
He frowned before speaking in a quiet tone. “Your life was better before you knew, Sheila.”
She turned away.
The relationship they’d developed was complicated. There was nothing romantic about it, no chemistry between them. He’d not liked it when the upper brass had insisted its top leaders retain civilian advisers to help better make and communicate decisions to their ultimate employers. Over time, though, they’d become close, perhaps like siblings. She knew that at this point he’d only hide something from her for her own protection.
That could only mean the weapon was something truly horrific. It added to her determination to get it to a safe storage area, somewhere inside the Bunker.
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