by J. L. Lyon
“Specify.”
“Location one: Division Nine, Rome, Saint Peter’s Basilica, to the receipt of Gordon Drake, Chief Advisor of Communications. Location two: Division Twelve, Berlin, Primary Division Control Compound, to the receipt of Christopher Holt, Chief Advisor of Weapons Development.”
“Authorization required.”
“Scott Sullivan, Chief Advisor of War.”
Within seconds the faces of his two closest advisors on the Ruling Council appeared on-screen, both strained and forlorn. Chief Holt spoke first, “Good afternoon Premier. Chief Advisor Drake. I trust the Coronation went well?”
Sullivan thought he detected a note of bitterness in Holt’s tone, “Everything went according to plan. Why do you ask?”
“The division leaders and generals in the east are growing restless,” Holt answered. “The generals in particular are concerned that Specter’s reinstatement lessens our chances for victory.”
“I see,” Sullivan frowned. “And you, Drake? Are you hearing the same?”
“Unfortunately yes,” Chief Drake replied. “Nerves are prickling as we prepare to take the plunge. But anger against the System is plentiful in Rome, so it has been easy to convince people here to stay the course. I would pose the question, Premier, of whether you still believe Specter can be made to serve us.”
“I do,” Sullivan said with confidence. “Elizabeth Aurora is performing admirably in that regard. When he first rebuffed her advances I was somewhat concerned, but apparently the man’s heart is more powerful than his baser desires. We have isolated him from the rest of his men and thus made Specter Aurora his most trusted friend. In the worst case we already have the means to coerce the Shadow Soldier’s loyalty if it becomes necessary, but I am confident he will join us of his own free will for Specter Aurora’s sake. Even if I am wrong about him, I have come to believe Aurora herself is more than capable.”
“Yes, but even her loyalty is given only because we have something she wants,” Holt said. “I’m not sure the generals would accept her as—”
“They will accept whatever we tell them to accept,” Sullivan said harshly. “They must understand that we are not moving to abolish the governmental stability of the World System; we only mean to overthrow Alexander in favor of the Ruling Council.”
The three men were quiet for a moment until Chief Drake began carefully, “You should know, Premier, that sentiment has changed somewhat in light of the Rome incident. Many are attempting to use this separation as a means to devolve power back into the hands of local governments. Idealists exist even among the generals who say that they are not putting their lives on the line to replace one tyrant with eight more. They have submitted a proposal that I think we should—”
“What is the meaning of this, Drake?” Sullivan interrupted. “Surely you are not entertaining this nonsense?”
“To be honest, Premier, we may not have a choice,” Holt broke in. “Accepting this proposal will go a long way to securing military loyalty, in addition to gaining an advantage the World System will never have: popular support. I think you will find the reforms are not so far-reaching as you might think.”
“You’re in on this, too?” Sullivan asked Holt. “Do the others know?”
“Yes,” Holt replied. “They have seen it, but all are divided as to how it should be handled. We would have contacted you sooner, Premier, but communications in Division One—”
“I know,” Sullivan sighed in exasperation. “The Hall of Advisors may be the last uncompromised transmission point in all of Alexandria. Well let’s have it, then—the short version, please.”
“The proposal is for the creation of a new government called the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities, or the ICC,” Drake began. “It calls for a transition period to dissolve the divisional structure. Each region will continue to be governed by its most dominant city as in the current model, but over time the population is to be allowed to spread out and repopulate the Wilderness areas. The endgame will be to abandon the city-state model for a more federalist state. In the beginning, each major city will be permitted to elect a senate with limited powers, and that senate will in turn select both the region’s leader and a team of representatives for the national government headquartered in Rome. These representatives will report to the capital city as members of a national body called the Citadel.”
“And what will be the purpose of this…Citadel?”
Drake paused before replying, “To make laws.”
Sullivan exhaled through his nostrils, and his voice dripped with disdain, “Not as far-reaching as I might think? Sounds like an outright restoration of democracy to me, gentlemen.”
“And on the surface, that is how it will appear,” Holt explained. “But the proposal also allows for the Ruling Council to be transformed, after selecting a ninth member, into the Imperial High Council. As the Imperial Council, we will have the power to arbitrarily dismiss any or all members of the Citadel at any given point, as well as to veto by majority vote any laws they make of which we disapprove. Systemics will continue to be employed, children will continue to take the OPE, and the economy will be run just as it has been under the World System for fifteen years. Each time we conquer a new area it will be assimilated into the ICC, as will each city resurrected from the Wilderness. What little representation we allow should feel like salvation to those who currently have none, making us much more than just another government. We will be the heroes who liberated the world from the oppressive hand of the World System.”
Sullivan’s lips were thin, “And what of our army? Who has control?”
“In peacetime, the army answers to the Citadel,” Drake answered. “But in wartime, the armed forces of the entire ICC are under the direct command of the Emperor…which will be you.”
“So the democracy of this new state will be nothing more than a ruse,” Holt explained. “We will still rule supreme without Alexander, and we will do so with popular support.”
Sullivan paused for a moment, displeased but smart enough to know how dangerous an outright refusal might be. “I’ll consider it. I assume they will want to draw up a constitution?”
“Yes,” Drake answered.
“Very well,” Sullivan said. “Have them write the document, but make it clear it will only be legalized by all eight of our signatures. Also, inform the drafters that I will not approve it unless the number of the Imperial High Council remains at eight. In instances of a tie vote my say will suffice as law. Now, for a more pressing matter: intelligence is reporting massive rebel activity within Alexandria. The signs suggest they are gearing up for a major offensive.”
“With respect, Premier, it would be unwise to stay in Alexandria longer than necessary,” Drake cautioned. “Everything for the separation is prepared. All we lack is your final word. I suggest you get out while you still can.”
“I agree,” Holt said. “If the MWR locks Alexandria down for a purge like the one we saw in Rome, you could be greatly delayed—or worse, the plot could be discovered before the separation is announced and you might never make it to the east.”
“I appreciate your concern, gentlemen,” Sullivan said. “But I must complete our acquisition of Specter first, a task I believe I can accomplish by the end of the week.”
“I feel I should tell you, Premier,” Holt began. “I had a team of specialists look over the Shadow Soldier’s file.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like we are missing something,” he replied. “When he appeared before us in the emergency session that day I got the impression I knew him from somewhere. I didn’t feel it would be responsible to welcome him into our coup attempt before settling where this recognition comes from.”
Sullivan thought back to when he first met the Shadow Soldier, getting off that helicopter on top of the Crown Section. He had looked so afraid as he went into Napoleon Alexander’s presence, but something changed between then and his appearance bef
ore the Ruling Council. He spoke to them with such power and presence, and that had been when Sullivan first felt it: a sort of nostalgic déjà vu, as though he had perhaps known the man in another life.
He looked back up at his compatriots on the viewscreen, “What did you find?”
“There was…an inconsistency,” Holt replied. “But my team has reached an impasse. They need access to the palace archives to determine the meaning of the data.”
“There’s no way to uplink the archives to you, Chief,” Sullivan said. “They can only be accessed here, in the palace itself.”
“I know,” Holt said grimly.
“Do you believe this a wise allocation of resources?” Drake asked. “With everything going on, we can’t afford to divide our efforts based on hunches and feelings.”
Sullivan felt something in his gut—an almost unnoticeable dread at the possibilities opened up by Holt’s investigation. There were things he might find that would disqualify the Shadow Soldier from his planned position—an event that could damage Sullivan’s standing in the eyes of both the generals and his allies on the Council. Yet still, far more damage could be done if this went ignored and proved to be of vital importance later on.
“If it was Holt’s feeling alone I would agree,” Sullivan answered. “But it isn’t. I felt this recognition as well, as did Napoleon Alexander, and you, Drake. That is too many instances to be mere coincidence. Holt, can you send me a data packet over the secure line in the Hall of Advisors?”
“I have my specialists standing by,” Holt replied.
“Send it to me,” Sullivan said. “I will have Orion look into it himself. With any luck it will turn out to be nothing, but I’ll keep you informed.”
“Done,” Holt affirmed. “But say the information does turn out to be damning. What then?”
“I have contingencies in place,” Sullivan smiled. “But we will worry about that if the time comes. It is going to be a trying week, gentlemen, followed by a period of much greater challenges. But I am confident we will emerge victorious in the end. Drake, have the constitution for the Imperial Conglomerate ready for review upon my arrival. Then I want the Imperial Guard placed under my direct control immediately.”
“Understood, sir. It will be done.”
“I’ll see you soon, my friends,” Sullivan smiled. “Enjoy these last days of peace.”
35
301 WALKED IN FURTIVE SILENCE down the crowded streets of Alexandria, Derek Blaine close beside him. Tan hooded robes concealed their navy blue uniforms and—more importantly—the vast array of weapons they wore around their waists. At present they looked like any normal pair of citizens traveling the city on a winter afternoon.
Prowling Alexandria for hours, they occasionally passed other Specter teams similarly disguised, their subtle nods the only indication of recognition between them. The air grew steadily cooler as another frigid night approached, and 301 clung to the hope that they would not have to continue this detail for much longer. In light of their failure to get an inroad into the nobility, McCall wanted them to sweep the city for anything out of the ordinary. He hoped some small and insignificant mistake might lead them to either the rebellion, the benefactors, or both. But near the end of the second day, this tactic proved to be nothing but a waste of time.
At the precise moment 301 opened his mouth to announce withdrawal for the day, Derek’s back stiffened and he spoke in a harsh whisper barely audible over the dispersing crowds, “There.” 301 followed his partner’s gaze to a figure moving purposefully through the crowd, and traced the man’s path to where it crossed with that of another man, who strode with equal purpose in the opposite direction. The two were about to pass right by one another.
301’s blood pumped with anticipation and excitement, “Command, we are about to witness a benefactor drop in Merchant Sub-quadrant Four. Standing by to confirm.”
Derek started to move forward as the two men converged, but 301 grabbed his shoulder and said firmly, “Wait until the drop is confirmed.”
He scowled but obeyed, tapping his foot impatiently on the concrete.
“Specter Captain, this is Command,” McCall’s voice came through his earphone. “If the drop is confirmed, you follow the receiver, understand?”
301 exchanged a look with Derek, who heard the order through his own earphone. His expression told 301 they were in agreement with one another, but not with the admiral, “Sir, the best course of action is to tail both men and send backup to their destinations.”
“And warn the entire benefactor network that we are hunting them?” McCall asked. “Too risky, not to apprehend only a single supplier. Follow that rebel and he will lead you to an entire cell. There’s no danger in tipping them off. They know we are hunting them.”
“Admiral, I must object strongly—”
“I note your objection, Captain,” McCall snapped. “But unfortunately you do not have operational control of Specter…not yet. Do as I say.”
As the admiral finished the two men passed one another, their shoulders grazing as if by accident. A small wooden box came into view for only an instant as it changed hands, and then the men continued on. The Specters moved forward at a quickened pace, “Drop confirmed. Beginning pursuit.”
“Keep your distance until the supplier is out of sight.”
Derek and the 301 slowed, following the suspected rebel at a distance. But as the crowds continued to thin, their pursuit became more and more obvious. No Silent Thunder operative would knowingly betray his friends. Their only chance was to capture the rebel and interrogate him.
“Command, target is moving toward the Northeastern Ruins. Cover is sparse. Request permission to intercept and interrogate before we are blown.”
“Negative,” McCall said. “Stay on him until he leads you to his comrades. This is what we trained for, Specter Captain. Make it work.”
301 sighed, “Understood, but I request a Halo be dispatched to pick up the others and bring them to our position once we identify the target.”
“Already done, Captain.”
Derek watched the man like a hawk stalking prey, and 301 could tell it took all his self-control not to defy the admiral’s order and take the rebel down right there. 301 understood, for he felt the same. After weeks of making little progress in the investigation it would be nice to have a victory.
McCall’s plan put them at a great disadvantage. The further the rebel went out of the city the more likely he would be to see them and make a break for it. Normal citizens rarely made it out this far in the middle of the day—never at night. One glance would be enough to give them away.
301 saw the rebel’s neck turn to look over his shoulder, and he reacted. He pushed Derek into a side street and pressed his back up against the brick wall. Derek struggled angrily, but 301 held him in place long enough to glance around the corner. The rebel had continued on, apparently unaware of their pursuit. He looked at Derek, “Two men are easier to spot than one. We need to split up.”
“Right,” Derek said. “You stay here. I’ll go.”
“No,” 301 said firmly. “I’ll maintain line of sight. You follow from one street over, and I’ll keep you updated on his movements.”
Derek hated being sidelined more than just about anything, so 301 didn’t give him time to protest. He walked back out into the street and continued the pursuit, trying to make up the extra distance the rebel had gained during their pause. He kept the target in clear sight as even the deserted buildings of outer Alexandria gave way to the decayed and rotten debris of the Ruins, charred remains of civilization left behind by the previous wars.
“Turning right,” 301 narrated. “He’s about to cross right over your path! Get out of sight!”
He temporarily lost his view of the rebel until he also passed around the corner, just in time to see the rebel disappear into a small building some distance away.
“Command, I think we have a location,” 3
01 reported as Derek stepped back up to his side. “Looks like a small shack about half a mile into the Ruins from MSQ4. Can you get a lock on our position?”
“Yes,” the admiral replied. “The Halo’s on its way. Can you tell how many men are inside?”
“Not many, unless the main compound is underground.”
“Can you get closer?” McCall asked. “The more we know, the better this will go for us.”
The two Specters advanced with caution, their boots falling soundlessly on the cracked concrete. They were still a few yards away when 301 felt a sudden chill run up his spine, and froze. Derek turned back to him, “What are you doing? We have to report on their numbers!”
301 shook his head, “Something’s not right here.” His instincts screamed danger, and the picture of his men lying dead around him three months before flashed through his mind. His heart thumped in his chest. This was Silent Thunder…was it foolish to think a simple game of cat and mouse had led them to a rebel enclave? He looked at Derek with wide eyes, “We’re walking into an ambush.”
“Very good, Specter Captain.” Derek and 301 whirled around to find themselves in the company of five Silent Thunder operatives, each of whom held a glimmering Spectral Gladius. The man who spoke stood at the center of the group, his uniform identifying him as a major. He smiled at their astonished faces, “I must admit I’m disappointed. I didn’t think it would be so easy.”
The Specters drew their weapons in unison, their fiery blades gleaming ever brighter as the day darkened.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the major cautioned. “A battle would be nothing more than an unfortunate slaughter, given the disparity in our numbers.”
301 heard footsteps on the concrete behind him. He turned his head slightly to see five more operatives emerge from the shack. They were surrounded.
“If you’re so worried,” Derek taunted. “Maybe you should call for reinforcements.”
The major sneered, “While I would enjoy putting you in your place, Specter, that is not our way. We have a message for the MWR. You’re good at delivering messages, aren’t you, Specter Captain?”