Shadow Soldier (The Shadow Saga)

by J. L. Lyon

  For Amy

  1

  HE WOKE FROM DREAMS of rain and fire.

  Shadows moved at the edge of his vision, lingering ghosts of the nightmares he had carried since childhood. It was a common occurrence among orphans of the war, of whom there were many. The five-year rebellion against the World System claimed many lives, and—as conflicts often do—left countless children alone in destitution. Most succumbed to starvation or exposure and followed their parents in death. Warriors die in glory, and their children are forgotten by the world.

  He had been one of the lucky ones. The Capital Orphanage of Alexandria took him in, and though the life they gave him was a cruel one, they provided him with the tools to survive.

  The dreams still echoed in his mind as he sat up on his bed. They had always been obscure, almost meaningless aside from the occasional loss of sleep they caused, yet every time they came he couldn’t stop thinking about them. Many believed such dreams were fragments of memories trying to reach the surface, but he didn’t know how that could be. So far as he knew, the Capital Orphanage was his beginning. His parents had likely died early in the rebellion. He never knew them.

  The clock on the wall read 22:00. Still two hours before he went back on duty. He needed that time to rest and recover, but as sleep never found him after the dreams it was a futile hope. He rose and stretched, pacing his small—but private—quarters. It was only two steps from wall to wall, hardly luxurious, but it was the first private room he had ever called his own.

  He was a soldier—a first lieutenant of the Fourteenth Army of Alexandria—and he bore the title with pride. The Fourteenth represented the largest standing force of the Great Army inside the World System’s capital city, and it was truly an honor to serve so near the seat of power. Whispers from his superiors suggested that he might find himself in one of those seats one day. The World System was still young and had not yet had a succession, but the members of the hierarchy were getting along in years. It wouldn’t be long before a replacement was required.

  The lieutenant retrieved a fresh uniform of Great Army greens and got dressed. He would rather make his rounds of the base than sit in a confined space with only his dreams to keep him company. He pulled on his weapons belt and made his way into the cool night, hoping to clear his head.

  Despite the time, the Fourteenth Army base buzzed with activity. Squads marched on patrol up and down the narrow roads between barracks, on their way to or from one of the operations buildings in the center. Hundreds of soldiers went on and off duty throughout the city every couple of hours, which meant the base rarely knew quiet.

  He had barely put three yards between himself and his quarters before a gruff voice rang out over the pounding of boots, “Lieutenant!”

  Respect for rank and authority had been drilled into them so hard that every lieutenant within earshot snapped to attention, facing the source of the voice. He did the same, though his off-duty status made it unlikely he was the intended target.

  When he saw the officer marching down the road, it gave him pause. It was Major General Wilde, one of the highest-ranking members of the division. The lieutenant had never cared much for the man, as he came off as callous and cruel, but the only officer who outranked him in the Fourteenth Army was the general himself. Wilde was his trusted confidant, and that made him a force to be reckoned with.

  The lieutenant remained lost in thought, believing that Wilde would pass him to speak with one of the other five or six lieutenants who stood at attention on the road. Much to his shock, the major general stopped in front of him. The others moved on about their duties.

  His heart rate sped up slightly. Had he done something wrong? Was Wilde here to see that he was punished?

  “Lieutenant…” Wilde began distantly, his voice trailing off. “What’s your name again?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Nevermind, I don’t really care. I presume you’re off-duty, since you’re just standing around.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Walk with me.” Wilde turned and headed back in the direction from which he came, toward the operations center. The lieutenant followed, keeping pace but remaining a step behind, as was protocol.

  “We just received word from Alexandrian Intelligence,” Wilde said. “An execution order has been handed down from Great Army Command. I need you to carry it out.”

  The lieutenant felt a pit of dread open up in his gut. Execution orders were rare, but when they came officers were always glad not to be on duty. Most ended up being grisly affairs.

  “With respect, sir, you know that I have never been on execution detail.”

  “Do you know how to follow coordinates? Fire that weapon at your side?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That means I don’t have to execute you for being an incompetent fool.”

  He grimaced. “Shall I wake my squad, sir?”

  “I have a squad. I need an officer.”

  The pit in his gut deepened. Most officers had their own squad of regulars, which helped create a sense of loyalty and confidence for missions. Ideally, soldiers were trained to give the same respect to officers no matter who was in command, but it never quite worked out that way. Leading another man’s squad on detail brought its own challenges.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what happened to their normal officer?”

  “Dead. Deserter—well, attempted deserter, at least. I’d put another squad on this, but we’re spread a little thin tonight and I don’t have one to spare.”

  “And the target?”

  “High profile,” Wilde replied. “One of the leaders of the old rebellion. You might even get another medal out of this one, if you’re lucky. Bring me his head, and I’ll give you his name.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  They reached the command center, where the squad stood waiting. He saw several distrustful stares come his way as they approached, which didn’t bode well.

  “You’ll be dropped off at the edge of the city and travel the rest of the way on foot.”

  The lieutenant’s dread faded away, replaced by fear, “The edge of the city…sir?”

  “Yes. The target is in the Wilderness Sector.”

  The lieutenant then knew he would have been better off staying in bed. The Wilderness Sector along the northern border of Alexandria was a breeding ground for murderers and thieves, a gathering place for those who spurned the order of the World System’s cities. In the wake of the wars at the turn of the century, the survivors had all gathered together in the last remaining cities, leaving the rest of the civilized world to decay and be reclaimed by the wild. The lieutenant had been raised to fear the Wilderness and the chaos it symbolized. It was not safe to go near it unless in full force.

  But refusing the order was not an option.

  Half an hour later he commanded a dead man’s squad to march on foot to the northern border. He could sense their trepidation as they drew closer to the outskirts, where deserted buildings that looked ready to collapse rose around them. The melancholy sight of a ruined civilization threatened to overwhelm the lieutenant—a reminder of the temporal state of man and his mark upon the earth.

  He tried not to think too much about his own mortality as they turned down a dark alley to begin their final approach. There had been no challenge to the government’s supremacy since the fall of the rebellion fifteen years prior, so why should he expect one now?

  Using the coordinates provided by intelligence, the lieutenant spied out a doorway halfway down the alley and held up a hand to stop the march. He stepped to the side of the door and allowed the squad to get in position, assault rifles read
y. They waited for his command with bated breath, all trace of distrust gone from their eyes. Unknown territory made them fall back on their most basic training.

  The lieutenant hesitated only a moment before giving the order, “Secure it.”

  A loud crack broke through the night as the soldiers knocked down the door and stormed inside, weapons sweeping the room for any sign of the target. The lieutenant waited outside, listening to the shuffling of feet, and drew his sidearm. A bullet to the head is all it will take. One bullet and this will all be over.

  The voice of a subordinate jarred him from thought, “All clear, sir. There’s no one here.”

  He frowned and pushed past the enlisted man, sidearm up in case the squad was mistaken. They weren’t his squad, after all. Streaming lights attached to the soldiers’ assault rifles gave him limited views of the room, but what he saw gave him pause. Thick layers of dust covered every surface, the stench of decay so potent that he couldn’t imagine staying in the room for more than a few minutes, much less taking up residence there. Cracks spread along the walls, evidence that supports for the building above might be near to breaking. No one in his right mind would live there.

  He slowly lowered his sidearm, no longer seeing the room. He needed to deflect blame for this onto an intelligence mishap, and quickly. To return without the target, with a report of mission failure…soldiers had been executed for far less.

  The lieutenant checked that his earpiece was secure, and then used his wristband to connect to the right frequency. A click sounded, letting him know the line was live, “Squad 11 to Fourteenth Army Command, connect me to Major General Wilde.”

  Nothing but static answered him. “Repeat, Squad 11 to Fourteenth Army Command, do you read?”

  “Sir,” one of the soldiers whispered. The lieutenant might have ignored it, but the fear in the man’s voice grabbed his attention immediately. He followed the man’s gaze up to the ceiling, where dust streamed down from the rafters in inconsistent patterns. The lieutenant turned his ear and listened, catching faint sounds like footsteps directly above.

  “Out, all of you,” he ordered.

  “Sir?”

  A series of low hums came to life overhead, solemn and melodious, while a strange white light shone down through cracks in the ceiling. The lieutenant’s heart dropped, unable to believe what he was seeing—or at least, what he thought he saw. It wasn’t possible! He raised his weapon and commanded with greater urgency, “Vacate the premises immediately!”

  But it was too late. An explosion ripped through the ceiling, raining wood and ash down upon their heads. Smoke obscured his vision and made it hard to get a sense of his surroundings, but it wasn’t long before he heard the screams. Spikes of white fire fell upon them with minds of their own, piercing into the unwary soldiers before they had the slightest chance to react. The cries rang in the lieutenant’s ears as men died all around him, and though he could see nothing in the dark but the furious white lights, he opened fire. Many tried to do the same, but managed only haphazard bursts before a fiery spike threw them to the ground.

  The lieutenant continued firing until a spike struck the weapon from his hand, searing his skin in a flash of pain. He cradled the hand against his side and felt the subtle warmth of blood as it seeped from the wound. Now unarmed, he sank to the floor and prepared to die.

  But the white lights did not strike him again. Silence reigned in the room, and the clearing smoke created that same eerie feeling he had experienced time and again at the close of battle. He had only ever participated in Wilderness raids, despite the recent war across the ocean, and those always ended with a World System victory. He was not accustomed to being on the losing side.

  The spikes moved into an arc formation and cut off his path to the door. What were they doing? Taunting him? Was the sting of defeat and the finality of death not enough for them?

  “Lights!” The voice startled him, and he realized that for a moment he had begun to see the spikes as otherworldly beings, thirsting for the blood of unwary soldiers. No, his mind snapped back to reality. These are just men. Powerful men, perhaps, but nothing more.

  Brightness burst from the room above at the voice’s command, illuminating the wielders of the white blades. One, the lieutenant was glad to see, had been wounded in his brief firing spree—further proof that they were just flesh and blood.

  He took in their solid black uniforms, unable to stop his inquisitive mind despite the likelihood he was about to die. Several groups had risen to challenge the World System over the years, most barely strong enough to provide more than a training exercise for the Great Army. Only two serious threats had risen in the past fifteen years, and both had been contained within the cities of their origin.

  None had ever dared to rebel in the capital.

  So who were these men? A splinter sect of some kind? He wanted to name them brigands from the Wilderness, but brigands wouldn’t fight with those weapons. Starved nomads in the wild didn’t move with that kind of discipline and grace. His only clue was the insignia that emblazoned the left side of their chests, a symbol that incorporated the blades they carried. He didn’t recognize it from any of his studies on recent rebellions.

  The leader of the group—a commander, by the silver stripes on his shoulders—stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the young lieutenant approvingly. “Well done, Officer. I didn’t expect you or your men to get off a single shot.” He glanced at the wounded rebel, “You alright, Corporal?”

  “Just a graze,” the corporal smiled. “Nothing a few days’ rest won’t heal.”

  “In a few days you’ll be in the ground,” the lieutenant said with spite. “Fools. You just slaughtered a detail of soldiers on official business from Central Command. They will be coming for you.”

  The commander surveyed the carnage around them with amusement, “If they fare as well as you and your men here, I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Traitors and murderers always meet the same end.”

  “Harsh words from a man whose profession routinely requires him to kill without question. Tell me, young soldier: how many men have you killed on Wilderness raids? How many women? Children?”

  The lieutenant trained his eyes on the floor. He tried not to pay attention during the raids, tried not to see their faces. But there were moments it could not be avoided. “I’m a soldier,” he said, voicing aloud the same excuse he gave to himself. “I follow orders.”

  “Those who pledge service to tyrants are no less tyrants themselves.”

  “Then give me the death I deserve,” the lieutenant said, attempting courage but feeling it fall flat. “Take your victory, short-lived though it will be.”

  “So eager to die?”

  “You just annihilated my squad,” the lieutenant indicated the corpses around him. “How else can this end?”

  The commander walked over to the side of the room where the lieutenant’s weapon lay, retrieved it, and made his way back to the center of the arc. He studied the silver sidearm closely, “Ruling Council Issue. Presented only to the most exceptional officers upon their graduation.” The lieutenant exhaled long and slow. Executed with his own weapon—the very one he had been planning to kill a rebel leader with just moments ago. He supposed it was appropriate.

  But the commander ejected the magazine and removed the remaining bullets one-by-one. They hit the concrete floor like metal drops of rain, and one rolled right into the lieutenant’s shadow.

  “We do not believe in killing when it is not necessary and serves no end. Your death gains us nothing.”

  “But theirs did?”

  “Yes. They died to send a message.”

  The lieutenant couldn’t place it, but he recognized something familiar about the commander’s voice, as though he had heard it in a long-forgotten dream. Up to that point he had only studied their uniforms, and paid very little attention to the men themselves. He raised his eyes to the commander’s face. />
  At first glace he was not impressed. Before him stood an average man—perhaps in his early fifties—in a uniform tattered with age. On his right sleeve he wore a patch of dirtied red and white stripes set alongside a star-strewn block of blue. At this, the lieutenant’s eyes widened. He didn’t recognize the insignia, but he did know that design. It was the flag of the nation that had once ruled in this region.

  The weapon in the rebel’s right hand was one that the lieutenant had never actually seen in real life, but he could identify it all the same; they had not been used in battle for fifteen years. The sight of the brilliant white blade presented a stark contrast to the simple uniform, and added back a certain degree of fearsomeness to the commander’s presence. Scars decorated the man’s arms—burns or cuts, the lieutenant couldn’t tell. One long scar, the remnants of a particularly nasty gash, lined the left side of the commander’s face.

  “You’ve sent your message, then. What do you want with me?”

  “First,” the commander looked down at him, no sign of anger or hatred in his eyes. “I’ll have your name.”

  “My name?” the lieutenant asked, caught off-guard by the strange request.

  “Yes, your name. What they call you.”

  “I have no name.”

  Many times this revelation led others to believe him arrogant or cold, withholding a name he did not wish for them to know. But the rebels merely shifted and gave one another meaningful looks. They did not seem surprised. Dread returned to him, this time much deeper, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from the dead soldiers he had led into this mess. Had the rebels done this merely to get to him?

  There were stories—rare, and unconfirmed—of officers who went out on assignment and simply vanished. The Great Army claimed they had been executed for desertion, but the lieutenant had seen the lie in the eyes of those who gave those reports. Was this what happened to them?

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked the commander.

  After a brief pause the rebel replied, “Designation 301-14-A, raised in the Capital Orphanage of Alexandria; tested into soldier training at ten; achieved active duty at eighteen; selected to train as an officer at nineteen; second lieutenant at twenty and first lieutenant at twenty-one. Quite an impressive resume. We’re ready to see what you will do at twenty-two.”