World War IV: A Broken Union

by James Hunt

  “He doesn’t plan to flee?” Gabriela asked.

  “No, he’s made no such provisions.”

  “The man can’t think he can win, does he?” Jason asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s been spending a lot of time in the lower west wing of the palace. He’s the only one allowed down there, and I’ve tried going there myself but found nothing.” The informant shook his head and seemed in disbelief of his own words. “It’s like he just disappears.”

  “We’ll worry about what Ruiz has been doing later.” Dean stepped between Gabriela and her spy. “We stick with what we know: Ruiz is still here, not planning on running, and guarded safely. We split our men, half to Ruiz’s location to make sure he stays put, and the others to open the front gates.”

  Soldiers continued to fill the room, and Gabriela, Dean, and Jason chose to intermix their fighters, but the three of them would stay together and take Ruiz. Each of them had their own vendetta, but Dean wanted to make sure Gabriela didn’t kill Ruiz before he had a chance to question him. He needed answers, and dead men told nothing.

  They slowly climbed their way up the steps to the palace’s main floor. The closer they moved to the surface, the louder the cannon fire thundered, and the shouts of Ruiz’s men rang through the halls. Bodies crouched and swords and rifles were clenched in fists behind the small cellar door that, once opened, would expose them to the bulk of Ruiz’s reserves. The pain in Dean’s leg still hadn’t subsided, but the resurgence of his adrenaline numbed his senses to a more manageable level.

  Gabriela’s informant gave a nod, and they burst through onto the palace grounds like water rushing into the hull through a boat leak. Ruiz’s soldiers were caught off guard, their backs turned, and many of them were cut down before they even understood what happened. Dean and the rest swallowed them up and left what remains they didn’t finish to rot and stain the floor.

  Dean kept pace, following Gabriela and her man toward Ruiz’s hiding place, while the rest of their forces headed toward the gates. The noise inside the palace walls grew with every march forward until the entire compound knew of their presence, sending the enemy into frenzy. Rifles fired, cannons blasted, men screamed, men bled, and men died.

  Word of their presence spread, and when they arrived at Ruiz’s holdfast, the number of guards had doubled. Bullets ricocheted off the marbled walls and floors as Dean and Jason ducked behind a pillar for cover, their swords clutched in their hands.

  During the lull in fire, Dean had a good look at the structure. It was a large, dome-like building. There were high windows and only one door, which he could see was protected by an inner wall with its own gate, stacked with more guards. Dean pulled back around, reaching for the pistol at his belt. “They should be at the gates by now.”

  “You think there’s a back entrance?” Jason asked, pulling his head back as the pillar’s corner puffed a spray of dust from one of the guard’s bullets.

  “Ruiz wouldn’t risk the possibility of a breach. It’s a safe house for him.” Dean packed the powder into the muzzle then cocked the hammer back. “If he comes out, he’s coming through the front door.” They couldn’t waste any more time. The number of guards being called back to protect Ruiz was reaching a tipping point. If they didn’t charge now, then they could miss their chance. Dean nudged Jason with his elbow. “You ready?”

  Jason pulled out his own pistol and cocked the hammer in response then waved his arm to catch the attention of Gabriela, who nodded in understanding. Their men readied behind them, tension heating to the boiling point then erupting as Dean and Jason rushed from behind the pillar, firing into the thick cluster of bodies at the gate.

  Dean’s shot connected to one of the guards in the center, right through the chest. He felt the ripple of lead pass by, some close enough to nick the surface of his shirt and pants. After the first volley from the rifles, Dean and Jason were too close for them to reload, and swords were drawn, but they cut three men down before their hands reached their hilts.

  Bodies crashed, and bones and steel clanged together. The tidal wave of Dean’s forces pinned Ruiz’s forces against the gates. The sudden surge overwhelmed the enemy, and the weight of bodies against the wrought-iron bars buckled the hinges off the stone walls, caving the gate backwards.

  Dean smashed his heel into the face of one of the fallen soldiers on his way to the door and burst inside, where another cluster of guards waited, circling Ruiz and a Chinese man Dean recognized as one of Delun’s ambassadors. He looked for Gabriela and found her slicing her way through guards on the left flank, her rage-filled eyes focused on Ruiz, who was cowering in the back against the wall. Only three more bodies stood between Gabriela and her blade slicing Ruiz’s throat.

  Dean rounded the right flank, bringing his blade across the thigh of one soldier then the stomach of another, dropping the two nearly simultaneously.

  Ruiz saw Dean approach and fired his pistol, the bullet grazing his shoulder. Dean dropped the sword but tackled Ruiz to the ground just before Gabriela’s blade missed flesh and scraped against the back wall. With their president captured, the rest of the soldiers dropped their weapons, a few of them wearing expressions of relief rather than fear.

  Jason helped Dean subdue Ruiz and made sure it was a group of their own men that took him into custody rather than Gabriela’s, who watched from a distance, the greedy lust of revenge in her eyes.

  The pain in Dean’s leg returned just as quickly as the battle had ended, and once their forces from the gates stormed inside, the battle was won. Cheers erupted from the palace walls in both English and Portuguese tongues alike. Dean sat in the corner with Jason, a field doctor tending to Dean’s leg and the cut from Ruiz’s bullet. The shouts grew so loud they vibrated the walls of the compound.

  Dean suddenly rose from his seat, knocking the doctor’s hand away, startling his brother. He looked around the captured soldiers frantically. Jason grabbed Dean’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  “The Chinese,” Dean answered, still looking around. “Where’s Delun’s ambassador?”

  Chapter 11

  The map of the Pacific islands furled at the edges, anchored by figurine ships and soldiers that dotted the blues of the ocean and the browns of land. Delun sat alone in his quarters at the end of the table, his fist supporting his chin as he studied the battle plans. His stare was unblinking, his posture motionless. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest offered any sign that he was alive.

  A fire flickered in the corner, doing its best to dry the moist temperatures of the island’s humidity. The flames cast the shadows of the objects in the room into monstrous, morphing creatures. Sweat dribbled down Delun’s temple from the added heat, but it did little to break his concentration.

  The New Zealand reserves had proved more substantial than Delun had anticipated, and his inexperienced captains had been pushed back to the wild islands off the northern Australian coast. The only inroad that had held was their western occupation of Perth, but their advancements had been stalled due to the raids on his forces marching east. Now, with both Brisbane and Sydney firmly back under Australian control, he would need the remaining ships that Rodion had taken with him to North America, but they were still two weeks away from arriving.

  Delun reached across the map and pulled the small ship figurines from Brisbane, discarding them to the floor. He needed more men and more ships.

  Recruitment among the islanders was steady. There were enough pools of young men, eager to stake their claim in a new world and escape the poverty of their homes, to begin building up reserves. But much like the inexperienced captains at sea, Delun knew most of them would never get farther than their first battle.

  Delun rose from his seat in one fluid motion then walked around to the side of the table. All of the Pacific islands were his now, and while the Australians were holding their own on their own lands, he knew that even with those victories, they wouldn’t dare try to press him here. They would wait until the Mars
brothers returned with their fleet.

  One of Delun’s men stepped inside the quarters, his entrance silent until Delun acknowledged his presence. “Emperor, we have received word from Ambassador Fung. He is on the line for you now.”

  Delun kept no modern equipment in his own quarters. Neither for convenience nor defense. While he acknowledged the power and purpose such technology offered, he refused to allow himself to become distracted, especially during war.

  A wake of submission followed Delun as he made his way to the radio towers. Upon his entrance, every soldier inside stood and remained bowed until he spoke. “Leave me.” The room emptied swiftly and quietly, none of the men wanting the disgrace of exiting last.

  The idolization of Delun’s presence was a concern for him. The need for respect and fear was a necessary component in the military, and those that mastered the qualities ascended the ranks quickly. But there reached a point that even the high-level advisors he relied on to ensure his strategies were well rounded would bite their tongue and hold their opinions. And that could prove dangerous if Delun was wrong.

  The pieces of equipment inside the radio station were large, the boxes of wiring as tall as Delun. He found a seat next to the receiver, where the radio spit out a quiet hum of static. He squeezed the side of the receiver but paused a moment before he spoke. “You said it was urgent?”

  “Emperor Delun, the Mars brothers have sacked Rio with the aid of local rebels.”

  Even through the crackling wire, Fung’s voice sounded uncharacteristically panicked. “Calm yourself, Ambassador. It was not to be unexpected that Ruiz’s men would fall.”

  A pause lingered over the sound waves, and when Fung finally answered, his demeanor had returned to the calm, collected man he’d mentored. “I managed to take with me some of the prototypes that Ruiz’s engineers were creating. There are items here with complexity that even I cannot comprehend.”

  “And what of the engineers?” New technology was useless without the practical understanding of its function. While Delun had studied much, along with his top advisors, their relationship with Brazil was meant to speed up the process in which to return to a more advanced society.

  “I managed to bring some, but once the gates fell, I only had a small window to act. There are many still here.”

  And if they were still within the confines of the palace, then they were now under the control of the Mars brothers. The last thing Delun needed was that family to have access to the minds he’d been exploiting for the past decade. “I’ll radio our ships patrolling the Chilean coast. They’ll meet you at the rendezvous point in thirty-six hours. Make sure the engineers survive the trip.”

  Delun ended the transmission. He wanted to keep it brief. He knew the Aussies had managed to get a hold of at least one of their radio systems, but knew they were at least a year away from developing anything on their own. However, that time line could change now with the Mars family in Rio.

  Future changes, potential shifts, strategies depending on strategies that Delun had yet to even bring to fruition swarmed the hive of his mind like angry wasps, their buzzing drowning out the ability for clarity. He rubbed his temples, leaning against the wooden crates constructed in the station to act as tables. “Sergeant.”

  The officer in charge of the station appeared instantly, eager to please. He bowed his head, his forehead nearly touching the dirt. “Yes, Emperor?”

  “Bring me the sword master.”

  “At your will, Emperor.” The officer was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving a swirl of dust upon his exit. It was only minutes later he returned, the sword master already dressed, with Delun’s gear tucked under his arm. “I can escort you back to your quarters to change, Emperor.”

  “No.” Delun extended his hand, and the sword master provided him the clothing. “I shall change here.” The two men exited, and once Delun was dressed, he unsheathed his weapon. The shine of the polished blade was bright enough to blind a man.

  Chinese symbols were etched on the side of the sword, perfectly symmetrical in size. He closed his eyes, remembering the words, gracefully guiding the weapon down through the air around him within the confines of the tent.

  Each fluid movement cleared his mind, dissolving the screaming stressors that clouded his ability to see beyond the problem and locate the solution. He breathed calmly, slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, controlling the functions of his body just as he had mastered controlling the minds of others.

  Delun bent low, his left leg kept straight while his right nearly scraped the dirt on the ground. When he opened his eyes, he stood and rolled his head around his neck, loosening the muscles that were tensed from hours at the strategy table.

  The sword master was waiting for him outside and had already cleared a space for the two to practice. The steady rhythm and focus allowed him to decompress, and the long hours that accompanied war had caused him to call for the sword master frequently. The rest of the soldiers surrounding the tent had dispersed, leaving the two to practice in quiet.

  “Emperor.” The sword master bowed deeply, his head bald except for the long ponytail that sprouted from the very top of his head and lay braided down his back.

  “Tell me, Hong,” Delun said, the sword master still bowed. “Would you kill your emperor?”

  Hong lifted his head, confusion spread across his features. “Emperor, I would not dare.”

  “You have been master of swords of my army for the past five years.” Delun walked around the cleared circle, flicking the sword with his wrist. “And you have trained me well enough to the point I would be confident in defeating you. Is that something you would agree with?”

  Hong remained silent, studying Delun’s face. When he finally spoke, the words escaped his lips carefully. “You have learned much, Emperor. Your ferocity on the battlefield would slay many men.” His dark eyes followed Delun around the cleared patch of dirt, his right hand tightened on the hilt of his own blade.

  “But could I slay you? And if I couldn’t, would you let me?” Delun stopped, his right foot slowly sinking into the cushioned sand still warm from a day baking in the sun.

  “If it was by your command, yes.”

  “And if I commanded you to fight me, like you would fight your enemy out on the field of battle, to not stop until it was either my blood that stained the sand, or your own, what would you do?”

  “Your word is law, Emperor.”

  Delun sprinted forward, sand kicking up from the earth behind him. His sword quickly found Hong’s blade, and the sharp pieces of metal slid across one another, brushing each other off like hands at a fly.

  Hong stepped back then slid to his left, circling Delun, who pivoted with the sword master’s movements. Delun felt the grainy sand under the pressure of his heel in his defensive stance. When Hong lunged, Delun parried then ducked as Hong slashed, his blade slicing nothing but air.

  Delun kicked up sand on his roll backwards, the horizon spinning with him, then slid right to avoid Hong’s continual assault.

  The sword master increased his speed, Delun barely able to keep up with the movements. Blades and hands blurred, the swords moving to the next position before the sound of contact was audible. Delun’s arms burned, and he felt his footwork grow sloppy at the quickened pace. He felt the features on his face strain, while Hong’s retained the stoic expression he wore as a mask at all times.

  Delun spun right, slicing the edge of the blade at Hong’s chest in the process, and Hong dodged the counter swiftly. Delun stepped forward, morphing his defense into an attack, pushing Hong to the rim of the cleared space. For a moment, he believed the sword master was on his heels, leaving an opening to his chest, but the second Delun tried to capitalize on it, Hong twisted his body right, slicing a cut across Delun’s forearm that dropped his sword.

  Hong held the tip of his blade to the emperor’s throat as he clutched his forearm. Blood dripped between Delun’s fingers and onto the sand. Hong low
ered his blade. “I have bled you, Emperor.”

  Pain rippled through Delun’s forearm, blood from the stinging gash refusing to clot, but a smile twisted across his face. “I should have more wisdom than to test the master of swords in a duel of steel.”

  Hong tore a piece of cloth from his own shirt and wrapped it tightly around Delun’s wound. “You have learned much, Emperor. Your skill is nearly that of my own. But, yes, I could still kill you in combat. But why is it that you seek such extremes from one of your own?”

  Delun’s arm throbbed as Hong finished the knot, staunching the blood. He wiggled his fingers, his own fluids slick against his skin. “I need reminders that I am still just a man. That mortality was what led me to build all of this. I cannot lose sight of who I am, of what I’m trying to do. Not when we are so close and the stakes this high.”

  Hong sheathed his weapon and then picked up Delun’s sword. He extended the blade back to his emperor. “And that is why you are emperor.” He bowed, the long braid swinging on his back. “Do you require anything else of me?”

  “No, I shall tend to the wound myself.”

  “Very well. Good night, Emperor.” Hong disappeared behind the communications quarters just as quickly and quietly as he appeared.

  Delun ordered the soldiers back to their stations, despite their protests that tending to the emperor’s wound was more important. In the end, they did as they were told. Delun instructed one of the doctors to bring him thread and needle to sew the wound and again had to order the man out so he could mend the cut himself.

  Once the wound was cleaned and sterilized, Delun brought the tip of the needle to the edge of the cut, nearly five inches long, and poked the tip of fine steel into his skin. The light pinch burned as the thread filed all the way through. He forced himself to continue and weaved the needle crisscross until the gash was sealed shut.

  Delun knotted the end of the thread then bit off the remaining excess. The needlework wasn’t the best, but the need for his own self-reflection outweighed the vanity of avoiding future scars. He bandaged it tight then poured himself a shot of sake.