by Aaron Hodges
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Rebellion
Book 4 of the Praegressus Project
Aaron Hodges
Contents
Foreword
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Aaron Hodges
Written by Aaron Hodges
Proofread by Tee Ayer and M.M. Chabot
Cover Art by Christian Bentulan
The Praegressus Project
Book 1: Rebirth
Book 2: Renegades
Book 3: Retaliation
Book 4: Rebellion
Book 5: Retribution
The Sword of Light Trilogy
Book 1: Stormwielder
Book 2: Firestorm
Book 3: Soul Blade
Copyright © October 2017 Aaron Hodges.
First Edition
All rights reserved.
The National Library of New Zealand
ISBN-13: 978-0-9941475-9-2
Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor’s of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he grew tired of office work and decided to quit his job and explore the world. During his travels he picked up an old draft of a novel he once wrote in High School – titled The Sword of Light – and began to rewrite the story. Six months later he published his first novel, Stormwielder. And the rest, as they say, is history.
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Never give up.
Never surrender.
Success is just around the corner.
Prologue
Liz sat on the edge of the rooftop, her legs dangling out over empty air. Her body tensed as she looked out at the city, her gloved hands gripping tight to the concrete lip. Skyscrapers stretched up around her, towering over the nondescript apartment building on which she sat. In the distance, she glimpsed the first glow of the rising sun, but the city remained in shadow, all colour leached away. With strict power rations in place, there was hardly a streetlight left to cast back the gloom.
It made the night perfect for hunting.
Four weeks had passed since the massacre at the university, and hardly a day had gone by in which she did not curse herself for fleeing, for running away and leaving Chris to die. Never mind that there had been nothing she could have done; she blamed herself all the same.
After all, Ashley had found the courage to stay and fight. Poor, broken Ashley, who just days before had frozen at the merest sign of danger. Liz had hardly been able to blame her—Ashley had been through more than any of them; suffered for weeks alone at the hands of Doctor Halt.
Yet, when their backs had been against the wall, it was Ashley who had stepped up, who had fought off the Chead and given Liz and Jasmine a chance to escape.
Liz almost hated her for doing it.
It should have been me!
She stood suddenly, her boots balancing precariously on the thin ledge. Fists clenched, she stared down at the hundred-foot-drop, her stomach twisting with the nausea of regret.
She saw again Chris’s face as she’d seen him last—tight with pain, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his broken wing hanging limp behind him. Injured and outmatched, he had thrown himself between the Chead and Ashley, determined to sacrifice himself to save his friend. But Ashley had remained, and the two of them had perished in the massacre that followed.
Liz’s only comfort was that Chris and Ashley had died believing their sacrifice had meant something—that their deaths had bought their friends time to escape, and reveal the truth to the world.
Battling through their grief, Liz and Jasmine had carried the pendrive the professor had given them back to the safehouse and handed it over to Maria. Then, tears streaming down her face, Liz had told the old woman what had happened to her grandson. She had watched as the light faded from Maria’s eyes, as the lines on her face deepened and her smile fell away. And Liz had felt her own heart breaking, as she’d been forced to face the truth.
Chris was gone.
Even the hope offered by the pendrive proved short-lived. With the collaboration of the students in the lecture theatre, they had hoped to be able to convince one of the news networks to run the story. After all, those students had been the children of the rich and powerful, the future of the nation. Not even the Director of Domestic Affairs could silence them without consequences.
How wrong they’d been.
Within an hour, the story was all over the television, the radio, the streets. ‘Texas’ had launched a counter attack, supposedly in retaliation for the capture of their operative, slaughtering hundreds of students at the University of San Francisco.
In response, the Western Allied States had declared war on the rogue state, enacting emergency wartime legislation. A nationwide curfew was extended to between the hours of 7pm and 7am, soldiers were brought in to patrol the streets of San Francisco, and strict rations were placed over the nation’s resources.
Worst of all, the Draft had been resumed, requiring all able-bodied men and women to report to their nearest army recruitment office. One-in-five were to be conscripted and trained for the coming war. The process was supposed to be random, but in practice, it meant rural youth were being depleted at an alarming rate.
Or so the rumours went.
Liz winced as a sharp pain flared in the palms of her hands. Fingers shaking, she looked down and saw the blood staining her white gloves. Her nails had cut straight through the fine material and pierced her skin. Shaking her head, she sucked in a breath, and forced herself to relax. Rage bubbled in her chest, but she refused to set it free. A cold bree
ze blew across the rooftop, but her long black hoody and pants kept it from her body. Spring was well underway, but this was San Francisco, and the wind rarely let up.
The massacre at the university had at least taught Liz one lesson—the President, the Director, the government, they would stop at nothing to win this war. No deed was too low for them, no act too foul. And if the resistance wanted to win, they needed to be just as ruthless.
Looking down into the alleyway, Liz bent her head, listening for the tell-tale crunch of gravel beneath boots. The soldiers were growing closer, just minutes away now. Reaching up, she tucked her curly black hair behind her ears, readying herself. From the noise they were making, she guessed there were no more than six.
She smiled. They didn’t stand a chance.
Spreading her wings, Liz watched as the patrol turned the corner below and started down her alleyway. The wind caught in her feathers, trying to pull her from the roof, but she crouched slightly, resisting its call. Her heart pounded in her ears as the soldiers drew closer. Dressed in black, her wings the colour of the night, she was all but invisible to those below.
Without a sound, Liz stepped forward into open space. Air whistled in her ears as she dropped, but she only had eyes for the soldiers below. She could see them clearly now. Their youthful faces scanned the shadows, eyes nervous, movements jumpy. Most were obviously fresh recruits, and their sun-kissed skin proved the rumours were true, that her rural countrymen were being plucked from their beds to fight the government’s war.
Only the two at the back were different. They moved with confidence, their backs straight and eyes hard as they scanned the way ahead. The rifles in their arms were held with the casual indifference of professionals, and their pale skin betrayed their urban upbringing.
These were the men she wanted to speak with.
By now Liz was almost on them. With just ten feet left to fall, her wings swept out to catch the air. They gave a sharp crack and her descent slowed abruptly, giving her time to adjust course. Below, the men looked up at the sound, finally alerted to her presence, but it was far too late.
As her boots struck the asphalt, Liz spun, her wings lashing out to catch the two leading recruits in the head. They stumbled backwards as those following screamed and lifted their rifles, but Liz was already moving, leaping through the air to land on the back of her next victim. Her weight drove him to his knees, and a single blow sent him face first into the ground.
Standing, she searched for the fourth recruit and found her close by. The girl couldn’t have been older than Liz’s own seventeen years, but as Liz stepped towards her, she promptly dropped her gun and fled.
Ignoring her, Liz leapt skyward as the rattle of gunfire came from behind her. Bullets flashed past, tearing stone chips from the wall of the alleyway. Tumbling head over heels, she watched as the two soldiers tried to track her flight with their weapons, but they were far too slow to catch her. Grinning, she landed between them. Her hands flashed out, catching both by the collars of their uniform. Lifting them as though they weighed no more than pillows, she tossed them backwards into either wall of the alley.
One slumped to the ground, unconscious, but the other staggered to his feet and tried to flee. Liz was on him in an instant. Catching him by the collar, she drove him back into the wall. Baring her teeth, she pressed her face close to his.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she growled. “I thought you were looking for me?”
The man continued to struggle, trying to break free, until she lifted him up and slammed him into the wall again. Air hissed between his teeth as his lungs emptied, and he gasped like a fish out of water. When he finally caught his breath again, he slumped in her grasp, apparently accepting his fate.
“Where’s the Director?” Liz leaned forward to whisper the question in his ear.
When she pulled back, the man cleared his throat, and then spat a gob of spit in her face.
Liz’s brow hardened, and without thinking she tossed him through the air. He flew several feet before slamming down into a pile of garbage. A can rattled along the alleyway as Liz strode after him, struggling to lock her rage back in its cage. Reaching up, she wiped the spit from her face, and watched with amusement as the soldier tried to pull himself clear of the trash.
When he finally staggered out, she leapt forward and grabbed him by the throat. Forcing him to his knees, she towered over him.
“They didn’t tell you much about me, did they?” she hissed. “Now, where is she?”
Since the massacre, neither the Director nor the President had been seen in public. Instead, they hid within the television, broadcasting their propaganda to the nation from behind locked doors. No one knew where they were hiding, only that they were bound to be well-protected. But that didn’t matter to Liz. She had only one desire now, one objective.
To kill the woman who had taken Chris from her.
The soldier’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Rolling her eyes, Liz loosened her grip around his throat, and waited for him to speak. He gave a muted choking sound and started to cough.
“Go…to hell–”
Whatever else he might have said was promptly cut off as Liz slammed her boot into his unprotected crotch. He crumpled without a sound, his sudden convulsion tearing his throat from her grasp. Not that it mattered—he wasn’t going anywhere now. Laying on the ground, the man gave a low, almost inhuman moan as he clutched his groin.
Taking a long breath, Liz knelt beside him. Her anger was raging again, begging to be released, and she felt a desperate need to indulge it. How satisfying would it feel, to watch this man die, to feel his life slowly drain away, smothered by her touch?
Her glove was off before she realised what she was doing. Only as she reached for his unprotected throat did she stop herself.
“Tell me where she is,” Liz said, her voice husky with desire, “or die in agony.”
On his back, the man stilled, his hands still clutching his groin. His eyes flickered up at her, then down to her naked hand. He swallowed, visibly afraid. Apparently word had spread about the awful death her touch brought.
“I don’t…” he shook his head, his voice little more than a squeak, “I don’t know.”
Liz sighed. “That’s too bad.” Slowly, she reached for his throat.
The man flinched, raising his hands to fend her off. “Please! I’m telling the truth,” he stammered.
Smiling, Liz nodded. “I know.”
Before he could respond, her hand flashed out and caught him by the throat again. His eyes bulged and he managed a strangled cry that faded to a squeak. He batted weakly at her arms, struggling to break her iron-hold, but it was already too late.
Liz watched dispassionately as purple lines spread up the man’s neck. He gaped at her as a low gurgling started in his chest. His feet beat helplessly at the concrete and his hands gripped her wrist, as though even now he might break her death grip. A wild ecstasy swept through her as she watched his face, as she felt the life slowly draining from him. She could almost taste his fear, his panic as death crept through his mortal body.
When he finally stilled, Liz released him and stood. There was still one soldier left to interrogate. As she turned towards him she heard the click of steel on concrete. She froze, catching sight of the rifle in the man’s arms, pointed straight at her chest. For a second, time seemed to stand still, as Liz realised she was too far away to reach him. In the narrow alleyway, he couldn’t miss.
The soldier grinned as he pressed a finger to the trigger.
Before he could fire, there was a whisper of feathers, and then an emerald-winged banshee dropped from the sky and landed on the man’s neck.
The sharp crack of the soldier’s spine breaking was still echoing through the alleyway as Jasmine settled down beside her victim. Her wings thumped one last time, sending garbage flying across the alleyway, before she tucked them neatly behind her back. Folding her arms, she raised an eyebrow.
“You missed one,” Jasmine commented.
Liz shook her head as she eyed the other girl. At five-foot-five, Jasmine was taller and more muscular than her, but Liz was a year older. This morning Jasmine was wearing her black hair in a ponytail, giving her a more youthful, innocent look. Of course, these days none of them were anything close to innocent.
Straightening, Liz shook her head. “I was getting to him,” she said a little too sharply.
“Looks like he almost got you,” Jasmine replied with a smirk.
Liz let out a long breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “How long were you watching?”
“Long enough.”
Liz glanced around the alley at the five soldiers scattered amidst the garbage. There was no sign of the one who had fled. The three recruits she’d dropped still seemed to be breathing. Finally, she looked back at Jasmine. “You could have given me a hand.”
“And deny you the chance to let off some steam?” Jasmine laughed. “I don’t think so. We don’t need that kind of anger bottled up in our little prison.”
Liz scowled. “You weren’t so different…not long ago.”
Jasmine stilled. “Yes…” she glanced away, the mocking smile slipping from her lips. “And look where that got us.”
A strained silence stretched out. Staring at her feet, Liz kicked a can down the alleyway. Looking back at Jasmine, she sighed and let the subject drop. “Well, what do you want?”
The only times Liz saw Jasmine on her nighttime forays into the city was when they needed something from her. Unfortunately, their heightened sense of smell meant tracking each other down was becoming easier and easier.