by James Hunt
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 sto
pped, 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 lowered 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.
The warm liquid slid down his throat and spread to his stomach, arms, and legs like the reaching flames of a fire. He looked back over to the map dotted with his men and ships, and that of his enemy. The Australians would wait for the Americans, yet the Americans were fighting battles on two fronts. It was a matter of days before Rodion invaded their northern border, and he didn’t believe it would take very long for the Russian to wipe them out.
But the might of the American Navy was a different story, and Delun knew that. But perhaps their newfound weapons would be the key. As long as he could get Fung here before the Americans found him.
Chapter 12
The rocky shores of the northwest had never been such a welcome and terrifying sight. Lance and Canice stood at the bow, the Sani rolling steadily forward in search of the hidden port along the shore.
The cliffs and rocks provided a natural barrier to any sea-based attack on the territory and was one of the reasons why Lance knew Rodion chose to land farther north along the coast by the Alaskan fisheries. But for those familiar with the waters, it wasn’t nearly as dangerous.
“Tell the crew we mount as soon as we dock,” Lance said. “I’ll leave the ship in harbor and order repairs and provisions to be stocked.” Lance turned to head back to the helm, but Canice’s voice stopped him.
“The crew needs rest, Captain.” Canice maneuvered her way around Lance until she was face to face with him. “It’s not gone unnoticed what the stakes are, but ever since the attack on Sydney, we’ve been moving nonstop. Nearly a third of our crew have died, and what’s left will die if we march them into battle tomorrow.”
“Everyone’s tired, Canice. This is war.” Lance pushed his way past her and glided down the steps, but despite the tone in his voice, she still followed.
“And what war has ever been won with men asleep on their horses, with their rifles and swords slipping from their hands?” Her words were loud and echoed across the deck, catching the ears of the crew.
Lance stopped, marched over to her, and kept his own voice low. She’d defied him before, but never in such a blatant display in front of the crew. “We are about to march into battle. For all I know, Rodion has already taken the capital and we’re sailing into a trap. This crew knew the dangers the moment they stepped on board my ship. Men die, war rages, and every day new dictators are crowned. There is no time for rest.”
It could have been the haste in which Lance had pushed them across the Pacific or the dangerous route he had them veer toward the dead islands, but his patience had worn thin. He didn’t need a lecture for the amount of danger his men were about to be put in, especially when he knew the cost.
“I know the crew understands that, but I also know that the only way to win a war is to fight smart.” Canice pointed to the jagged cliffs along the shore as they approached. “Your brothers are gone, Lance, and that means you will have to lead. Those men don’t know you, they only trust your name. They will not follow you so willingly as the crew if you beat them harder than their enemy will.” Her face twisted in frustration, and she shoved his chest. Lance stumbled backward then raised and clenched his fists, Canice doing the same.
“Captain!”
The throaty roar bellowed from one of the deckhands. Lance froze. His fists trembled with adrenaline. He felt the tiredness in his eyes, the fatigue of his mind, and the brokenness of his own body. He lowered his hands, and Canice reciprocated, the fight running out of both of them.
The crew had circled, and every pair of eyes was set upon them. Each tired, haggard face drooped with a hint of fear. It could have been how the crew looked or the way they looked at him, but for the first time in his years as a captain, he doubted his decision to push forward. “I know the toll this has taken on everyone.”
Lance stepped backwards, taking the time to look each of his men in the eye. Canice sunk into the ranks of the crew, joining as a spectator. Lance rubbed his forehead hard, frustrated at th
e lack of words he needed at the moment. Grime and dirt rolled off in balls and flakes onto his palm and fingers. “What I’ve asked you to do, and what I will continue to ask of you, has been the impossible. I will not relent. I will not stop. But I have no right to push you into a war you do not want to fight. We are not a part of the navy. You came to work on this ship as free men. And as free men you can leave or stay. When we dock you’ll have your pay, and those that wish to fight can follow me to the capital. Those who don’t...” Lance shook his head, exhausted. “Those who don’t should be with your families if you have them. If the army can’t stop what’s coming, then your time of rest may not last long.”
And with that, Lance disappeared into his cabin, alone. No one, not even Canice, came to disturb him. He paced the floor anxiously. He’d sailed with this crew for a long time, and they had weathered storms before, but none so ferocious as this. With all the death and pain that had surrounded them over the past few weeks, he wasn’t even sure if Canice would stay with him, and he found himself hoping that she would.
The port horn sounded, and Lance ascended to the deck, where the crew cast lines and started unloading the ship, offering no signs of who would stay and who would leave. Lance made his way to the port office and found himself searching for the long braid of Canice’s hair amidst the heads on the ship’s deck.
A letter from General Monaghan waited for him, stating that the front lines had been drawn north of the capital, close to the wilderness border. The entire might of their standing army was called upon, with scouts deployed both in the north and south to ensure that Rodion didn’t attempt any trickery by flanking them in the rear.
Lance collected the payout for his crew at the bank, which barely had enough funds to dispense him what was needed. The prospect of war had triggered a withdrawal frenzy. Everyone was preparing for the worst.
The crew was already lined up when Lance made it back to the ship. His mouth went dry as he walked past the men, none of them looking him in the eye, which didn’t ease his worries of who would stay. Lance seated himself at the table and pulled the manifest files from his folders. The heavy leather-bound books thudded against the tabletop, and he went down the line. “John Hughs.”