by J. L. Lyon
The general left the alley and doubled back along the road so that they walked with the flow of traffic, which steadily thickened as the morning grew brighter. The cold had subsided, but Grace pulled her hood down further self-consciously as though every person they passed might recognize her. She had to be a wanted fugitive by now.
“So what exactly does your group do?” Grace asked after a while, tired of the silence. “Scout new members?”
“That’s a part of it,” Crenshaw replied. “But we deal in intelligence of all sorts.”
“There’s something I don’t understand about all this,” Grace said, thinking to herself that there were probably many others besides. “If the nature of the resistance—the Right Hand, the Benefactor, your little intelligence group, all that—is such a big secret, why tell me? Won’t that risk ‘upsetting the balance of the resistance,’ or whatever?”
“It’s too late to worry about that now,” Crenshaw said. “The balance of the resistance is going to be upset anyway.”
“By what?”
Crenshaw stopped in the middle of the street and answered quietly, “War.”
She followed his gaze to an obscure wooden door not ten feet away, its brown paint chipped and peeling with no marks to distinguish it from any other on the street. She looked to her left and right, feeling oddly conspicuous. Everyone around them walked purposefully to the east, eyes lingering upon them briefly before passing by. Mostly she saw annoyance on their faces at having to walk around, but a few times she thought she detected a note of suspicion.
“General, what are you doing?” she whispered. “We can’t just stand here like this!”
“Protocol has changed since your disappearance,” Crenshaw said. “Trust me, this will work.”
Grace regarded the general as she might a lunatic, until she noticed the rhythmic tapping of his index finger on his opposite arm—Morse code. She tried to make out the words midstream from her limited knowledge: V-A-T-I-O-W-I-T-H-N-O-V.
Gunfire ripped through the air, breaking Grace’s concentration and throwing the entire street into an uproar. The travelers fled in every direction, none quite sure where the shots had come from. Grace was of a mind to do the same, certain their conspicuous behavior had drawn attention from the wrong person. But before she could act on that impulse, strong hands took hold of her shoulders and led her toward the nearest alley. Fearing the worst, she fought back and opened her mouth to alert the general, but was thwarted by a hand clamped over her mouth.
“Peace,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “You are among friends.”
Out of the corner of her eye Grace saw Crenshaw being dragged along in a similar way, apparently unbothered. No more shots were fired, but people continued to run haphazardly for cover even as Grace and Crenshaw disappeared around the corner with their captors.
The man leading Crenshaw knelt down to remove a manhole cover and pushed the general toward it, “Inside! Quickly!” Crenshaw obeyed without hesitation as though this was exactly what he expected. That made her feel a little better, though not enough to drop her guard.
“After you,” the man behind her said politely. Not seeing any other option, she followed Crenshaw into the dimly lit underground, nose crinkling at the stale air as she descended. Crenshaw helped her off the ladder when she neared the bottom, and she reeled on him once she found sure footing, “Why didn’t you tell me this was the plan? I could have drawn my Gladius and killed them!”
“Let’s just be glad you didn’t,” he replied dryly.
What little sunlight streamed into the sewer was cut off as one of the men replaced the manhole cover, and the sound of their boots hitting the pavement was accompanied by the clicks of cocking weapons. “Hands where we can see them, both of you!” The man who had led Grace above yelled. “Make one move without our authorization and we will kill you.”
“So much for being among friends,” Grace said, lifting her hands high. She knew for certain who the man was now, even without seeing his face. As he moved forward to search her, she spoke with amusement, “You’d better watch your hands, Davian…if you want them back.”
The man she called Davian froze with astonishment, “Who are you?”
“We’ve come for an audience with Commander Sawyer,” Crenshaw said.
“One you shall receive,” the voice of a third man, one that made Grace’s heart leap to hear, spoke from the darkness, “Sooner than you think.” She heard footsteps, and then saw his silhouette emerge from the shadows—her father, Jacob Sawyer.
She moved forward to embrace him, but the man beside Crenshaw brandished his weapon in her direction, “Stay where you are!” She tried to lower her hood to reveal herself, but hadn’t moved an inch before he yelled again, “And keep those hands high!”
“Is this how you treat all your friends, Jacob?” Crenshaw asked indignantly.
“We live in troubled times,” Sawyer replied. “None of us can be too careful. But you are quite presumptive to assume we are friends—especially after what I told you the last time we met.”
“I had hoped that some bonds were too strong to stay broken forever,” Crenshaw replied. “Even after fifteen years.”
“You have a lot of nerve coming here, Crenshaw,” Sawyer’s tone darkened. “At our last meeting I made it quite clear that if you walked out on us you would never be welcome in our ranks again.”
“And I made it clear that fighting in the open as we had always done would produce nothing but senseless death,” Crenshaw’s voice rose. “That is the reason I left, to pursue other ways of destroying the World System—and as history tells, my predictions proved true.”
“Not one life has been lost in vain,” Sawyer protested. “Anyone who says otherwise will be shown the courtesy of my blade.”
Grace was dumbfounded. She had never seen her father act this way toward anyone—especially not someone who was on their side. Whatever the rift between he and Crenshaw, it must have been serious to invoke such hostility. Or perhaps he had changed since believing her dead. Losing a daughter couldn’t have been an easy thing to bear, especially when she was his only remaining family. She wanted to reach out to him, to let him know she was okay so he would stop this madness.
But Crenshaw cut across her before she could speak, “Foolishly rash, as always, Jacob. I suppose after fifteen years some things just never change. Believe me when I say that if I could walk away I would do so right now. But I need you, as you need me.”
“We’ve done fine thus far without you,” Jacob said. “So what is it you have to offer?”
“The edge of Renovatio, which if you’ll remember is as valuable as your finest swordsman,” Crenshaw replied. “And I also bring word from our mutual friend, who for the moment will remain nameless.” As the general said this, he waved his right hand slightly. Grace watched her father, and knew from the expression on his face he got the message.
“Tell me who this is,” Jacob said, indicating her, “And I would also like an explanation as to why you felt the need to use the memory of my late daughter to secure safe passage for your companion. ‘Request meeting with Glorificus, behest of Renovatio with Novus Vita.’ That was the message you gave to us in Morse code. Novus Vita was Grace’s call sign, Crenshaw. If you have been in contact with our mutual friend, you must have learned that she is dead.”
“I learned a good deal more than that, old friend,” Crenshaw said, his tone lightening. “If you will permit the lady to reveal herself.”
Jacob nodded, and Grace felt a wave of relief. She pulled back her hood, allowing her long dark hair to fall back around her shoulders, and smiled, “Hi Dad.”
For a brief moment the world seemed to freeze in place. Jacob Sawyer looked at his daughter with disbelieving eyes, his expression betraying an expectation to wake up at any moment and realize it was all a dream. But as the seconds continued on, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He rushed to her, enveloping her
in his arms so tightly she couldn’t breathe, “Grace! What sort of miracle is this? We thought you were dead!”
“So I’ve heard,” she said, struggling to take a breath. “But it will take more than six weeks of captivity to do me in.”
Jacob pulled back and looked at her with questioning eyes, “Captivity?” He grabbed her right arm and shoved back her sleeve to reveal the imprint. As he read the designation, his eyes widened, “You’ve spent the last six weeks enslaved to 301-14-A?” Jacob’s eyes relayed intense pain and anger, burning not at her but at the man to whom that designation belonged.
“Dad,” she said, hoping to save him from asking her the horrible questions running through his mind. “The Great Army ran a sweep of the Central Square when I was still inside, but they weren’t the ones who caught me. I was taken by slave traders and sold to Napoleon Alexander, who then gave me to 301-14-A as his prize for becoming Captain of Specter. For the last six weeks I have been in captivity, but he treated me well. He respected me, protected me, and when danger threatened, saved me. In the end he was the one who let me go, and he risked everything he knew to do it.” She felt a pang of regret, wondering how things had turned out for him.
“The explosion along the palace Defense Ring last night,” Jacob said with wonder. “That was you?”
“A decoy 301 provided so we could escape,” she replied. “He had help from another on the inside. With intel he received from the man who revealed my life was in danger, we found General Crenshaw, and he agreed to bring me back.”
Jacob looked at the general, regret suddenly overtaking him, “I’m sorry...if I had known…”
Crenshaw shook his head, “Don’t worry about me. I have thick skin. But we should get moving. The Great Army will have arrived by now to see what the commotion was all about, and I would prefer to steer clear of them if it’s all the same to you.”
Jacob nodded, all traces of animosity gone, “Agreed. Davian, Michaels, lead the way. My daughter and I have some catching up to do.”
“Yes, sir.” the two operatives replied.
Grace smiled as her father gazed at her, looking as though he still believed it might be a dream. He grabbed her hand, “I thought I would never see you again, and that feeling—that truth nearly tore me to pieces.”
“I’m here now,” she said. “And we have much to talk about. Am I still second-in-command?”
Jacob seemed a bit taken aback, “Grace, you’ve just been through a terrible ordeal. Are you sure you’re ready to—”
“Don’t get overprotective on me now,” she said. “You need me, and you know it.”
“There have been some…adjustments…since you left.”
“What kind of adjustments?” she asked.
“We will have plenty of time to discuss this once we are in a place of safety,” Crenshaw said urgently. “For now, we are still in danger.” He turned and followed the two Silent Thunder operatives deeper into the tunnel.
As Grace and her father moved to follow, Jacob turned to her and said affectionately, “I do have something I think you should know right away.”
“And what is that?”
“I love you.”
Grace laughed, amazed at how comforting it was to hear those words from her father. “I love you, too, Dad. It’s good to be back.”
31
DARKNESS STRETCHED OUT in every direction as far as 301 could see, as though the earth and everything in it no longer existed. He pivoted, searching behind him for something—anything to let him know he was not the last person alive. He saw nothing but endless black, as though Hell itself had swallowed him whole.
He started walking just for the sensation of doing so, despite the overwhelming sense that there was nowhere to go. At least in moving he felt like he was advancing toward something, even if he never arrived. He traveled for what seemed like hours without catching sight of a single thing. And then a voice broke through the silence, startling him with a tone both vindictive and concerned, “You’re going the wrong way.”
301 turned around swiftly to find Eli standing a short distance away, his clearly visible features presenting an odd juxtaposition with the darkness that surrounded him. It appeared as though some source of light shone on him, but where that light came from 301 couldn’t see. It reminded him of the full moon, which stood ignited in the black sky despite having no light of its own.
“What are you doing here?” 301 asked.
“I came to tell you to turn around,” Eli replied. “Before you get lost in this place.”
301 looked around, still seeing nothing, “Where are we, exactly?”
The boy said nothing.
301 balled his hands into fists, frustrated at having his mind invaded by this apparition. What had he done to deserve this? He glared at the boy and demanded, “Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because I need you to see,” Eli replied ominously. “I need you to understand.”
“See what?” 301 asked. “How you died? What does that matter now anyway?”
“I am not dead,” Eli asserted. “But I am dying. I need you to understand.”
“What do you want me to understand?”
“Who I am.”
The world around 301 burst into flame, leaving only the place where he stood untouched. Overcome with fear, he turned around to look for some escape, but the fire walled him in on every side. Eli was gone, erased by the flames that loomed before him. The fire—strange as it seemed to think it—felt familiar to him, somehow…similar to the vision he had on the night he met Grace. Despite the searing heat, he leaned forward and focused his eyes within the hungry blaze, consciously searching for what he knew would appear. After a moment he saw them: deep green eyes, full of sadness and pain. And then the eyes turned and looked straight at him, searing his soul as relentlessly as the flames would have his skin. He saw a flash of faces: a woman with flowing blonde hair, a young dark-haired man, and then a little girl with bright blue-green eyes.
Then the fire fell away to darkness, and once again he stood alone. A voice rose up like a peal of thunder, crushing him beneath the weight of its plea, Remember me.
He sat up straight in bed, out of breath and pouring with sweat. His skin was hot and feverish, as though he had actually been standing before those flames. 301 put his face in his hands and sighed with relief, realizing it had just been another dream. He got out of bed and immediately wished he hadn’t, the lingering effects of the dream making him lightheaded and nauseous. He held his hand up in front of him and noticed it shook slightly, but he refused to lay back down and risk being late for training that morning. After the previous night he could not afford any more negative attention.
He thought of the dream as he got in the shower, washing off the grime of the previous day. If nothing else, it kept his mind off Grace, the debt he owed for freeing her, and the question of whether his encounter with Liz the previous night would come back to bite him in the coming days. She was no longer his only ally in Specter, but she was still his strongest.
As time went by the dreams seemed to be getting worse—more vivid, more emotional—almost like old memories coming to the surface after a long time in darkness. He thought back to what he had been told in the Capital Orphanage, that one day the memories from the first seven years of his life might return. But what was he seeing? Did those flames have something to do with the traumatic event recorded in his file?
He turned off the water and dried himself with one of the clean towels brought daily by the palace staff. As he stepped out of the shower and came face-to-face with the fogged up mirror, he wiped away the condensation with his hand and stared at his complexion.
Not much had changed about his face, for he always made a point to keep himself fit. But his eyes told another story. Where once they had shone with confidence and even arrogance, now they didn’t seem to shine at all. If they were truly windows to his soul, s
adness was their theme—sadness and loss. The void he felt in his heart manifested strongest in those pools of deep green, put on display for all to see.
301 turned away from his reflection and the reminder of his pain. Why had Grace’s departure affected him so? He was the Captain of Specter, an elite soldier with a future beyond anything she would ever know or imagine. He didn’t need her, not when he already had the means to attain everything he ever wanted. The time had come to close the door on that part of his life and focus on the thing that truly mattered: becoming the most powerful warrior on the planet.
Grace was a member of Silent Thunder. Silent Thunder was the enemy. Therefore she was the enemy. If their paths ever crossed again he would be forced to act accordingly. He saved her once, but he could not do so again—he would not.
As he put on his Specter uniform and fastened the weapons belt around his waist, doubt crept into his mind. His feelings for Grace were powerful, perhaps stronger than anything he had ever experienced. Could he set them aside for a greater place in the World System? If they were reunited, would he do what was necessary to secure his position and his future?
He could only hope that day, and that test, never came.
32
GRACE SPENT THE MAJORITY of their underground trek bringing her father up to speed on her six-week absence, carefully leaving out details that might reveal her attachment to 301. She didn’t think her father would be particularly pleased by that development—he might even relieve her of duty. So she stuck to the facts, from the moment she was taken by the slavers to 301 setting her free. She also left out the kiss, Rosalind, and the revelation Crenshaw had insisted they keep secret—though the last pained her more than the rest.
Jacob listened intently until she finished, weighing every word carefully in his mind, “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. Though I must say, your description of 301-14-A doesn’t sound like the soldier I met before your capture. Are you sure he’s the same man?”