by J. L. Lyon
Suddenly the void in the room was shattered by the sound of a small voice, “Hello.”
301 shot to his feet in surprise and was halfway to an attentive stance before he realized that something was not quite right. His eyes fell on the speaker, who just so happened to be less than half his height. There in the center of the room stood a child—a boy of no more than five or six with dark hair and bright green eyes—smiling as though he had not a care in the world.
“Who are you?” 301 demanded harshly. “And how did you get in here?” He immediately felt guilty for being so harsh with the child, but couldn’t shake the feeling that this boy absolutely did not belong here. In a way, it offended him.
“How do people get anywhere?” the boy shrugged his shoulders. “I walked.”
301 frowned at him, taking in his ripped jeans and dirty white T-shirt. He thought it more likely to meet this boy on the streets of the city than in the Crown Section of Napoleon Alexander’s palace. Come to think of it, he had never even considered the possibility that children might live here.
“So who are you then?” 301 asked.
“My friends call me Eli,” the boy answered. “We were playing hide and seek, and I think I got lost. Where is this?”
“This is a restricted area,” 301 said, trying to intimidate the boy into ceasing his questions. “You’d better get out of here before the MWR’s guards come. If they find you, you’ll be in big trouble.”
“What’s a Em-Dubyou-Arr?” the boy called Eli laughed. “Doesn’t sound scary to me.”
“It’s M-W-R,” 301 said again slowly. “And it stands for Mighty World Ruler, the most powerful man on the planet. I promise you, it’s very scary. Now go back to wherever it is you came from. I’m sure your mother will be looking for you.”
“Why are you scared of some old man?” the boy asked with his eyebrows raised. “You look pretty strong. I bet you could beat him up!” He looked excited at this prospect, as though there was nothing in the world he would rather see.
“It’s not that easy,” 301 shook his head, trying to think of a way he might explain the situation to a child—though how he could live in the palace and not know was a mystery in itself. “The MWR has a lot of very strong friends. They would stop me before I could even get close to him.”
“My daddy told me that we shouldn’t be afraid of men,” the boy said seriously, “because they can only hurt our bodies, not our souls. So I don’t think you should be scared—not even if you have to face a hundred men!”
“And who is your father, to make such a claim?” 301 asked.
“His name is—”
The door to the holding room clicked as the knob turned and a palace aide stepped inside. 301 pivoted on his heel to face her, fearing for the boy’s discovery. But when he looked back at the place where Eli had stood, he saw nothing. There was no one there.
“301-14-A,” the aide spoke. “The Ruling Council has been assembled. Your presence is required in the Hall of Advisors, immediately.”
He let his eyes travel the room, knowing that Eli must have hidden somewhere—but there was no place to hide where a searching eye could not find him. It was as though he had vanished into thin air. 301 opened his mouth to ask the aide if she had seen him leave, but then thought better of it. What did it matter anyway? The boy was no concern of his.
The aide watched him with a keen expression, “Do you know the way?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Can you take me there?”
She nodded sadly, evidently knowing the gravity of this summons, “Follow me.”
-X-
Napoleon Alexander sat down at the head of the long square table where the eight Chief Advisors and the Grand Admiral were already waiting. He gazed at each of them in turn, noting the disheveled looks brought on by their unexpected journey to Alexandria. Some wore expressions of fatigue or even boredom, completely oblivious to the seriousness of what they were about to learn. Premier Sullivan sat on Alexander’s right looking more refreshed than the rest, while the Grand Admiral had taken the place on his left.
The MWR gave Sullivan a short nod, signaling that the emergency session of the Ruling Council could commence. The Premier stood and began, “Chief Advisors of the Council: while I know you are frustrated to have been called away from your homes on such short notice, I must request your undivided attention. The urgency of this meeting—great when the assembly was called—has now proven to be even more pressing as new information has come to light.
“You have been called here to discuss a critical matter of world security; an issue that has not been discussed in this Hall for fifteen long years.” With that statement, all eyes fell on the Premier. Boredom and fatigue evaporated, for Sullivan was not known for unnecessary exaggeration. “Approximately fourteen hours ago, an execution squad was dispatched by Major General Wilde to the Wilderness Sector northeast of the city, based on intelligence that rebel General E. C. Crenshaw had been sighted.
“However, the sighting turned out to be a ruse. Whether or not Crenshaw was ever actually there, we don’t know. The squad was ambushed, and all were killed save the first lieutenant who led the mission. Aside from the officer the soldiers were inexperienced and expendable. We estimate that the battle lasted approximately ten seconds.
“Normally those responsible would simply be hunted down and executed, but there are…” the Premier struggled for a word, “complications.”
“What complications?” Donalson growled. “Seems to me that we should just raze the city to the ground until the people give these traitors up!”
The corners of Premier Sullivan’s mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “I think there is another option that won’t require sacrificing this great city to the chaos you have created in Rome, Grand Admiral.”
Donalson smirked in return, contempt shining through clearly on his face.
“But, first things first,” the Premier put in his earpiece and spoke. “Send him in.”
The doors to the Hall of Advisors swung open to reveal a young man dressed in an officer’s uniform. His rank pins and weapons had been stripped from him in disgrace, making the stripes on his shoulders the only evidence of his former status. And yet despite this, it seemed that his pride and dignity had not been taken, for he walked into the Hall of Advisors as though to accept an esteemed award.
Two palace guards flanked the fearless soldier on both sides and instructed him to stand at attention facing the MWR from the foot of the rectangular table.
Alexander waved his hand at the guards, “You may go.”
Once the doors to the Hall had shut again, Sullivan spoke, “State your designation.”
“Three-zero-one Fourteen-A.”
“Alright, soldier,” the Premier sat. “Give us your report.”
301 took a deep breath, trying not to think about the overwhelming amount of power held by the men in the room, and began, “Last night at 22:00 I was placed in command of a squad assigned to execution detail. An intelligence report had come through confirming that a high-priority target had been sighted in the Wilderness Sector near the border to Merchant Sub-quadrant 4, and they needed an officer to administer the System’s justice.
“I led the team to the location and ordered them to secure the room. They did so, only to discover it empty and obviously deserted for several years. When I entered to confirm the intelligence failure, the rebels caved in the ceiling above us. By the time I had fired five shots from my sidearm I had been disarmed and all my men were dead. The rebels fought with weapons I had never encountered before, and we were unprepared and insufficiently trained to meet such a threat. The white light was all around us—piercing into my men before they even had time to react.”
“White light?” one of the advisors—a middle-aged, crimson-haired man who looked much younger than his peers—asked with a patient stare.
“Yes,” 301 said. “The white light of the Spectral Gladius.”
>
The advisors sat up straight in their seats, eyes wide at the pronouncement. Alexander did not move, but his gaze darted from advisor to advisor, surveying their reactions. For a few moments all sat in complete silence. Some were not even sure they had heard correctly.
“I’m sorry,” one of the other advisors said. “Did you say the Spectral Gladius?”
“Yes, Chief Advisor,” 301 replied. “And they were skilled in the use of them. I fired a shot from the chamber of my weapon as the rebel commander’s back was turned, and he moved the blade into the trajectory of my bullet with astonishing speed. These were not just common rabble seeking to make a name for themselves through martyrdom. This was a planned, precise attack designed to send a clear message to the hierarchy: the rebellion has returned.”
Whispers broke out around the table, silenced quickly by Napoleon Alexander’s authoritative voice, “That, soldier, is a determination that we shall make. Do you have anything else to report?”
“The rebel commander gave me a symbol of this message—”
The MWR held up his hand, “I will handle that part of the tale, 301. Is there anything else you would like to say about the mission and its failure?”
He opened his mouth to speak. There were so many things he wanted to say. This wasn’t my fault. We weren’t prepared for anything like this. I didn’t fail. I’m not ready to die. But the only thing that escaped his lips was a single word, “No.”
“Excellent,” Alexander said. “We will move straight to the sentencing. Advisors of the Ruling Council, do you have any questions for the accused?”
Silence. The MWR smiled, “Alright, then—”
“Actually, Mighty World Ruler, I have some questions.”
“Very well, Chief Advisor Holt. You may proceed.”
The tall, gray-haired man turned smoothly in his chair to better face the deposed soldier, “You are the one they call the Shadow Soldier, are you not?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“I’m sure you are aware that the Ruling Council has had their eye on you for some time,” Holt said. “You are what—twenty, twenty-one?”
“According to the Capital Orphanage, I will be twenty-one on August 28th.”
“Not yet twenty-one, and already a first lieutenant. Impressive.”
“But not unprecedented,” Grand Admiral Donalson said cruelly. “Really, Chief Advisor, we have more important matters to discuss. Let’s sentence this soldier to his death and be done with it!”
301 noticed Holt and Sullivan lock eyes and make some kind of unspoken exchange. After a moment the Premier said, “I think it may be wise to allow Chief Advisor Holt to proceed.”
“As do I,” the red-haired man, who wore a nameplate that 301 could just barely read—Drake—chimed in. All but the grand admiral subsequently agreed. Donalson’s eyes narrowed in the Premier’s direction, and 301 sensed that Sullivan got some sort of satisfaction from the grand admiral’s anger.
Holt smiled, “They call you the Shadow Soldier because you have no identity before your entrance in to the System, correct? How far back do your memories go?”
“My first real memory is of my seventh birthday, but my papers say that I was admitted to the World System in the first year of the Systemic era at just over a year old.”
“How did you come to enter the System?”
“Abandonment,” 301 replied. “I was left on the doorstep of the orphanage as an infant with no identification or evidence of where I came from. I suspect that my parents were killed sometime before that. Matron Young took me in, but chose not to give me a name, believing that leaving me with a designation alone would provide distinction.”
“And did it?”
“Yes. In ways both positive and negative.”
“So how is it, then, that you can’t remember anything from your first seven years?” Holt asked.
“The exact details are unclear to me,” he replied. “But from what I understand, there was an accident that caused me severe psychological trauma. Only after months of sessions with the orphanage’s Discipliner did I recover, emerging without any memory of what transpired. I have been told that these memories might return to me, but as of yet they have not.”
“And you were enlisted in the ranks of the Great Army at what age?”
“I began training at ten and achieved active duty at eighteen.”
Now it was Drake’s turn to speak, “So you were picked out of the enlisted ranks to be trained as an officer in only your first year?”
301 nodded, “After one year of high-intensity training I graduated a fully-fledged officer, and was awarded my sidearm by this Council.”
“And just one year later you are a first lieutenant,” Holt stated.
“Stripped of rank, sir, but yes.”
“It was a horrible stroke of bad luck, then, that you were assigned this mission,” Drake said. “This is the only blot on your record, but it is quite a large one. You must understand that there is no way it can be erased.”
“Unless it can be proven that I was not at fault.”
The grand admiral stifled a laugh, but Sullivan asked, “And how would you do that?”
“I didn’t give the order to send that team into the Wilderness Sector without checking the source of the intelligence,” 301 replied. “And I wasn’t the one who set forth the directives that resulted in us walking blindly into an ambush. But most importantly, I wasn’t the one who decided there was no longer any need for training our forces for defense against the Spectral Gladius.”
“Are you placing blame for this on the Ruling Council, Shadow Soldier?” Holt asked with moderate amusement.
“That, Chief Advisors, you may decide for yourselves.”
The Premier smiled to himself, Such bravery. Perhaps Holt was right, and this soldier could be an asset to them. “Maybe the young soldier is correct.” Sullivan found himself the target of accusing eyes, and proceeded to explain. “Perhaps the time has come for us to re-examine some of our precepts and adjust them accordingly.”
“Alter the System?” Donalson demanded. “Because of the word of some worthless soldier? Preposterous!”
“Yes, Premier Sullivan,” Alexander agreed. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Times change, and desperate situations call for desperate measures. We have quite a task before us, and to complete it we may have to rethink many of our directives—and perhaps even alter a few of our laws, yes.”
Donalson started in again, “That is unacceptable—”
“301,” Holt cut across him sharply. “Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
Feeling that silence would help him more than pleading his case further, 301 replied, “No, sir. I trust that the Ruling Council can reach an intelligent consensus concerning my fate.”
“Very well, then,” Premier Sullivan said. “That will be all for now. Instruct the soldiers at the door to escort you back to the holding room. We will contact you when your fate has been decided.”
301 nodded respectfully, and complied with the order.
5
SILENCE REIGNED IN THE HALL of Advisors for several moments after the young soldier’s departure, giving rise to an atmosphere of dread. All knew where the conversation must now turn, and it was not a place they desired to go. At length the Premier said quietly, “Mighty World Ruler, I believe you have something to present?”
Alexander nodded. “We will hold the sentencing of 301-14-A for now. Somehow I get the feeling that opinions on his fate are not unanimous. But we do have larger issues at hand.” He reached into his pocket for the insignia patch and threw it on the table with disgust, “The rebel commander responsible for the attack sends us his tidings.”
Gasps rose around the table as the advisors’ mounting fears were confirmed. The insignia depicted two rays of light extending from the sides of a Gladius, forming the most forbidden of symbols in the World System: the Spec
tral Cross. Underneath the image was written the all-too familiar motto, More Than Conquerors. The patch and its implications sent chills down the spines of all in the room.
At last Chief Advisor Drake gave voice to their dread: “So, the Silent Thunder Rebellion has returned.”
“The rebel commander was none other than Jacob Sawyer himself,” Alexander replied. “This patch is his way of laying down the gauntlet. He has declared his intent to challenge us once again.”
“I was under the impression that Sawyer and all his commanders had been hunted down and exterminated,” the grand admiral said.
“Following the execution of Lauren Charity, we launched a massive campaign to locate and destroy all remaining members of the rebellion,” the Premier explained. “For the most part, this campaign was successful—but there was no way to know for certain that we had killed them all. Sawyer was presumed dead, but not confirmed.”
“He must be hunted down and destroyed,” Donalson declared. “The snake’s head has emerged from the nest. Cut it off, and we will watch its body wither and die.”
Chief Advisor Holt looked at the grand admiral with disdain, “Unfortunately our task is not that simple. We have been hunting this man for over two decades. The rebels are like phantoms: difficult to find, and even more difficult to kill. I’m not sure the Great Army is equipped to handle such an operation.”
“And there are other things to take into account,” Sullivan said. “We can’t take the gamble that this is just an isolated incident. Sawyer has been in hiding for over fifteen years. We have to assume he has been using that time to rebuild his forces for a rebirth of Silent Thunder. If he is confident enough to declare himself, that does not bode well for us.”
“If rebels were pouring into the city en masse, we would know it,” Donalson said, pounding his fist on the table to drive home his point. “Sawyer knows he cannot hope to face us in open war.”