by O. J. Lowe
“And what the hells do you want now?” Lydia asked, rounding on Uncle Coll. “Haven’t you people done enough damn damage here already without disturbing us even more? Her bitch mother isn’t here and…”
“Lyds,” Meredith said, taking her hand. “This is my uncle, Collison. Just let him speak, please, babes.”
“Mrs Dupree,” Uncle Coll said. “My deepest congratulations on your nuptials here, my niece is a wonderful woman and I hope you’ll both be very happy together.” He clasped both hands in front of his chest, gave her an uneasy grin that he managed to make look roguish. “And I hope you can accept my deepest apologies on behalf of Unisco for what happened here today. Your new mother-in-law is a woman in deep demand, there are law enforcement agencies across the five kingdoms who would very much like to speak to her. We had a tip that she was here, and as distressing as that might have been for you, we had to respond to it. She’s a dangerous woman and we believed very firmly that her presence would have been toxic for your happy day. We all have our duties in life.”
He could speak well, she gave him that, and Lydia could too by the way she looked mollified. She cocked her head to the side with a smile before offering him a hand which he shook.
“Pleasant to meet you, Collison. I can’t say that I’m happy about it, but I appreciate you’ve got your job to do. And I’m glad someone is at least looking for her.”
“We’ll find her, ma’am. Don’t you worry about that.”
Meredith had never seen Lydia grin so widely. “I’m not worried. I already found the only Coppinger I ever want to spend my life with.”
Aww! Meredith blushed under her makeup, not caring if anyone noticed. Uncle Coll and Lydia were chatting, she’d offered him wine and he’d accepted. Already they were getting on better than her mother and Lydia ever had when they’d met. Things were looking up, the first day of the rest of her life. She meant to start it as she intended to continue. To love and to cherish. For better or for worse. For richer or poorer. This was who she was now. Meredith Adele Dupree. Wife of Lydia. Niece of Collison Coppinger.
Disowned daughter of a madwoman and a man she’d never known. Heir to whatever legacy her mother inflicted upon the five kingdoms, a burden she’d just have to bear. A new start, a rosy future.
What more had she ever wanted?
Chapter Two. Vazara is Burning.
“The conception of war always brings the birth of opportunists, of cheats, bad men, liars and cowards. Those who would grow up to furnish the fields of discontent. In a world where courage is rapidly becoming as scarce as diamonds, it takes a special kind of man to do what needs be done. As long as I draw breath from my body, Vazara will not fall. Not to the Vazaran Suns and not to Coppinger!”
Leonard Nwakili speaking on the evening of invasion.
Tripoli was on fire, the skies alight with the smell of smoke and thick with laser fire as fresh off-the-line Coppinger designed Razr aerofighters and Vazaran Sun Corsairs swept through their native sky, their weapons pummelling what little was left of the Vazaran navy with all their might. They’d been fighting through the night and most of the day, their numbers greater than Nwakili could have anticipated. His spies had failed him when he’d needed them the most. Even had his information been accurate, it wouldn’t have been enough. Not even close. Most of their capital ships had been knocked out already, the remnants of one dreadnought still burning in the sand outside the city. Already the capital city had despatched drone fighters up into the fray to try and turn the tide, but it was too little too late. The small, man-sized figures might have had the manoeuvrability in conjunction with the heavier firepower that aerofighters might have offered but alone it would only be a matter of time until they were picked off one by one. Speed and agility meant little when heavily outnumbered.
Even with the aid of anti-aircraft blaster cannons, they wouldn’t last much longer. The oncoming army tore through the cannons mounted throughout the city with all the savagery of fire ants through flesh, the deafening blasts silencing under a dozen simultaneously smaller ones, each gun dying in a blaze of scarlet fire. Still there were men on the ground but they couldn’t help with the problems in the sky. Surface to air munitions were all but depleted, used up in the first waves of attack. The ground invasion would come soon, once large pockets of resistance had been knocked out by the forces in the air. Out in the distance, they were massing, ready to swarm. The moment their boots met the streets of his city, that would be the start of the end.
Nwakili watched on a monitor, his heart heavy with the force of anger and the tugging lull of regret. In truth, he couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment when this had come to reality. He’d known it was coming, he’d prepared as best he could but by the same token he hadn’t expected the resistance to them on their way north to Tripoli to be so… lacking. Perhaps his own fault. Perhaps he’d taken it for granted that all these rumours of his own people being welcoming to Coppinger ideals would be just that. Rumours. He didn’t entirely believe her claim that she’d brought the Green to Vazara. Nor entirely was he convinced it was a natural phenomenon. Deserts didn’t just become covered in fauna overnight. He’d been reliably informed that the ecosystem had been drastically altered. Indigenous Vazaran creatures who needed the heat and the dryness to survive were now struggling, most of his efforts before this war had come dangerously close to his home had been to ensure that as many of them were put into the proper habitats as possible. Some of these creatures were rare and beautiful, they wouldn’t be around forever. He had a duty to preserve some of the great treasures of Vazara for the future generations.
Maybe that had been a mistake. She’d used that against him. Now that it rained every other day, people were no longer going thirsty. A long time ago, Coppinger had sat in this very palace and discussed with him the possibilities of water purifying planets in Vazara, building at least one per city. Because after all, she’d said, nobody should ever have to go without water, especially not in a kingdom like this. He’d granted her that permission, they were going into overdrive now, supplying free water to everyone who wanted it, she’d won their hearts through their stomachs. The crafty bitch. To say he was impressed at her cunning might be an understatement, he just wished he hadn’t been the victim of it. Normally Nwakili didn’t wish, he didn’t like to dwell on what could have been.
Most of his navy was done for. When he’d heard they were coming, he’d gone to the Senate for help, demanding a five kingdoms task force to help protect his kingdom. They’d dragged their heels over a larger force, sending scant numbers as token gestures, ships and men that had been past their best years ago, men who had no interest in fighting for Vazara. Their efforts had been made, they’d fought gamely but they’d died very quickly. Perhaps that had been the start of the end for him. Those who he’d considered his allies hadn’t even lifted their fat fingers to help him, instead choosing to ignore the problem he faced. Because, he could already imagine them saying, while the Coppinger is focused on Vazara, it gives us a chance to shore up the other four kingdoms, make sure she can’t do the same there.
If he made it out of here alive, he would have to seriously consider where Vazara stood in relation to the Senate. Considering cessation of membership would be the only problem he’d truly like to have right now, rather than face the imminent death and destruction of everything he’d looked to build over his years as ruler of the kingdom. It put things into perspective, he knew that much.
He sat in the central room of his palace, the most fortified room available and continued to watch on the row of monitors, more and more of them losing their feed by the minute as videocams went down across the city. Soon he’d be completely blind from here. Still, he had plans. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. Rumour had it that Coppinger had despatched one of her top lieutenants to help take the city and he intended to take the bastard with him. His own personal guard, the D’Han had already planned to ensure the first who entered the palace gained a swift and dang
erous welcoming. The first through the door wouldn’t live to enjoy the glory. Out on the streets, the ground battle was starting, his own forces were firing at the invaders, blaster rifles chattering, as they prepared to lay down their lives in the name of the one true Premier and it filled his heart with warmth that even despite the hopeless situation, they still believed in him.
The feeling didn’t last long. As noble as their acts were, it was only a stopgap, a necessary sacrifice to ensure that they slowed up the enemy. They were prepared to give their lives, he was prepared to spend them to maximum effect, all in the name of granting the rest of the city enough time to prepare. Coppinger forces… He’d heard that some of them were clones from somewhere, that dossier had come out a long time ago, courtesy of his old contacts at Unisco. Terrence Arnholt, the director hadn’t been in the best of shape recently and stuff was growing a little lax where the organisation was concerned. Brendan King, despite what he might have thought about himself, didn’t have the chops for the role. He was too proud, too stiff necked and he lacked the diplomacy Arnholt could bring to any sort of discussion. He didn’t inspire loyalty the way the stricken director did. Still rumours of Arnholt’s recovery grew stronger every day. He’d been badly injured six months ago in that fiasco at Carcaradis Island. He really could have done with Unisco backup right now. All that time he’d devoted to serving them and this was how it ended. He’d liked to think that Arnholt would have moved to help him, even if others in the agency had not. Terrence damn Arnholt. One of the best men he’d ever known. If he’d had a glass, he’d have raised in memory of the man he was likely never to see again. Nwakili knew he wasn’t getting out of this building alive.
Coppinger tanks were entering the city, hovering behemoths that skittered lazily above the surface of the streets, their high-powered weapons opening up on any moving target that caught their gunners’ eye. The first one through the space where the city walls had been earlier received an explosive blast, shook it off and kept on coming. More rained down, covering the armour with fire and Nwakili grimaced angrily at the little effect it was having. That armour had to be thick. He’d insisted on a rooftop contingent of explosives experts near each gate in the city, each of them bearing explosive launchers for this situation. No good, no avail. There probably wasn’t enough firepower left in the entire city to deal with them all. And if they’d been banged up by the resistance on their way up north, it didn’t show.
Ukara, Adedeji, Bala-Bala, Tomasberg, Nelkendi… All of these cities should have been between him and the invasion force, all of them should have had to have fallen before this happened. He idly wondered what had happened, communication with them had been lost a long time since. Knocked out by force? Or surrendered willingly? He didn’t know, didn’t want to either. If he’d been betrayed, at a time like this he’d prefer to be ignorant about it until it didn’t matter one way or another. Nothing short of a miracle was going to save him or his city.
He stood up, gave the monitors one final look before closing them down. The tanks were cutting a swathe through his city, not even following the roads, some of them were blasting buildings of out of their way and moving through the rubble, forcing their way through the debris like demonic metal children emerging from a ruined womb of brick and stone. In the short space of time that he’d been sat here, they’d cut their way through half the city, they’d halved the distance between them and the palace. They’d be here soon. Tanks on his doorstep would not be a good sign.
Just for a moment, he thought about surrender. Maybe they’d let him live if he promised them that he’d let them have it. And then he violently rejected that notion in the space of a heartbeat. Whatever else might be said about him, let it never be said that Leonard Nwakili went down without a fight. He’d won the Premiership of Vazara through every bit of skill and guile he’d had, it had been gruelling and more than once he’d felt like throwing the entire thing in for something easier. But he hadn’t. He’d fought his way up to the top and he’d been there ever since. Barring some unpleasant misunderstandings with Coppinger, and he wasn’t the only one who’d been fooled by her, he felt he’d done good in his time in charge. He felt he’d been a good Premier. Better than most. He’d done a lot for the kingdom, at least he’d tried to.
Of course, being fooled by Coppinger meant for a lot less when a lot of the other main parties who’d dealt with her weren’t actually alive any more. Ritellia for instance. And unlike that poor excuse for a man, Nwakili couldn’t actually claim to be corrupt, at least he didn’t think he was. When she’d made all these overtures, he’d asked questions. Questions beyond ‘how much?’ Questions she’d been able to answer satisfactorily, and he’d gone away secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t anything untoward going on with either her or her attentions. He’d been pleased with the way things were at the time, but it didn’t do him a whole lot of good now, did it? If he’d known what he knew now…
He didn’t hold much with wishes. Hindsight was always perfect vision. In the recent months, a lot of people would have done things differently if they’d have known what the consequences were going to be.
The moment the tanks entered the grounds of the palace, they caught the first surprise that had been left behind for them by the D’Han. The first two hovered over the line of motion mines that had been carefully planted just below the surface of the flowerbeds, their presence triggered the sensors in the devices and they screamed straight up out of the ground and punched ragged holes underneath the tanks before exploding. The business edges of the mines were lined with lukonium for added penetrative force to their boom, rumoured to be the hardest metal in existence. If anything existed that was harder, it hadn’t been discovered yet. Whatever the tanks were made of, it didn’t hold up against the force, the explosion imminent after. The first two went straight down and exploded in a cloud of deeply satisfying fireballs. Those straight behind them crashed straight through the wreckage, emerging out the other side with dents and burns pockmarking their shells
More came, more followed and Nwakili watched them trace their way of destruction over the gardens that had once been tended to by his wife. When he’d heard they were coming, he’d sent her away who knew where. His wife and his daughters wouldn’t be any sort of chip to be used against him in the coming slaughter. If he didn’t know where they were, he couldn’t tell the enemy. He’d made sure they had enough credits to start over, had emptied the last few dregs of the Vazaran treasury out. If he was going down, he might as well make sure that those he left behind were provided for. His first corrupt act, he’d agonised over it after they’d left and yet ultimately had decided he couldn’t give a damn. Things were about to go bad, he wasn’t going to be held responsible for his actions. The way this invasion had turned out, it was just about likely that Coppinger might seek out to punish him even after he’d gone to the grave by exacting retribution on what was left of his family. He was doing everything to ensure that didn’t happen. His sons… He didn’t know. They’d gone to fight, to lead armies in his name and never come back. He hadn’t seen anything of them on the monitors before he’d left them behind. He suspected they were dead; the anguish was locking him up inside, carving at his insides with unceasing abandon. Dwelling on that right now would be fatal. He couldn’t allow any distractions. If he made it through the night, he’d mourn them. Their deaths would have meaning. If he were to fall, then it would be for nothing.
The second wave of tanks hit the pulse emitters, almost solid waves of sound ripped out across the gardens, tore the fountain to pieces and the scattered stones bent huge dints into the outer shells of the incoming forces, bending cannons out of shape into disuse. Then came the flames, dozens of them roaring out the burning grass and across the battered hunks of metal. His predecessor as Premier had been a man very prone to believing he would be invaded at any given time and he’d set out to employ as many possible countermeasures as he could. Nwakili had never imagined cause would ever come to use them
for himself. If he listened, he could imagine hearing the screeches of men roasting inside them. It wasn’t satisfying, he took no pleasure in admitting that it was their own fault. They’d picked this fight and they’d paid the price. That they were only clones meant very little to him. Flesh was flesh after all. If he had a huge clone army with the means to grow more, he’d be throwing them away as cannon fodder as well. Some tactics never go out of fashion. Better them than men and women who had lives outside of their military duty.
More tanks were coming but they were fewer and further away now, he hoped that they were running low on their numbers. War was an expensive business. More to the point, the wreckage of those that had come before were blocking them away from making easy headway up to the front door. Nwakili smiled, watched as the clones, all clad in uniform battledress of sand colour armour broke from behind the last tank, two battalions of them and started to make their way across the gardens. The slight distortion about each of them suggested they were all wearing personal shields as well. Of course, they were! Standard procedure as well would be that they’d be packaged in overlap shields. Stand them close enough together and each shield reinforces one another. Twenty of them stood in a group would look like an easy target, yet in reality they would be probably the safest on the battlefield. They moved like they were trying to keep their defences up, weapons raised and going in lines of four across the deadly ground. They were anticipating more traps.