by J. L. Lyon
“With respect, sir, I don’t think it wise for you to be present on the ground. If Crenshaw does not come alone and we corner the rebels, a full-on battle will undoubtedly ensue.”
“There is no chance I’ll miss this execution, Specter. I was there the last time a rebel queen was burned, and you can be assured that I will be there for this one as well.”
“Burned? You’re going to burn her?”
“A fitting death for such a prize, don’t you think?” Alexander laughed. “One that will remind the world of the last time the rebellion failed them.”
Derek felt a pit of remorse form in his stomach. It had been his duty to capture Grace Sawyer and he would gladly do it again…but burning? It would be a torturous death, not to mention barbaric and completely unnecessary. But there was nothing he could say or do to change the MWR’s mind. Alexander relished the thought of Grace Sawyer dying a horrible death before the eyes of the public and Ellis Crenshaw in particular. It unsettled him, but such things were above his station.
“Setting up an operation of this size will take some time, sir,” he ventured. “Can it be done in under twenty-four hours?”
“You’d be surprised what my soldiers can do when the threat of death hangs above their heads,” Alexander replied. “They will do their job well, so long as Specter does theirs. I hope I can count on you for that.”
“Of course.”
“You may return to the Specter Spire and remain there until I call,” Alexander said. “And if you happen to see your partner, make sure he knows that I am waiting patiently to congratulate him—and that it’s unwise to keep me waiting for long.”
“Yes, Mighty World Ruler,” Derek stood and saluted. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
31
301 WOKE IN DARKNESS, shivering with dread as the vacant blue eyes lingered on in his mind after the endless dreams of the night. The visions had been there too, interspersed with the memory of Kacie Jordan’s death, but he would gladly live out any one of them if only to erase the sight of that haunting stare. It was an empty hope, he knew—he was doomed to see her forever.
As he slowly came to his senses he remembered the events that led him to sleep upon the cold wet concrete of the underground. Derek had betrayed him. Grace had been taken. And he was faced with the decision of going on to the Wilderness alone or returning to the World System to watch her die. Unable to bear the thought he struck out to the north—or at least what he thought was north—to the Wilderness Sector. But after an hour of wandering his fatigue finally overcame him, and he sat down and slept right there in the middle of the tunnel with the rats.
He rose to his feet, stretching out to relieve the stiffness in his joints, and pulled Calumnior from his side. He attempted to activate it but nothing happened. Looking at the base of the hilt 301 saw two red numbers he had never before thought twice about: 00. Calumnior’s energy chamber was depleted. He shook his head in frustration. A Spectral Gladius was not meant to be used as a flashlight, and though he had extra Solithium vials he couldn’t continue on like he had the previous night. He needed to get up to the surface and take a peek to see if he could discern exactly where he was.
301 ejected the empty Solithium vial and let it clatter to the ground, then slid another into the hilt. It clicked into place like a magazine, and the lights in the top cavity began their slow circular pulse once again. He checked the base: 99. That should last him at least a few days, if he was careful. After that, one more vial remained.
Calumnior ignited and lit the way before him, not as brightly as a light rod but enough to see by all the same. Not that there was much to see—every tunnel looked the same as the next, and he had suspected several times the previous night that he was going in circles. Nonetheless, he pressed on in the hope that there would be an exit at the next platform.
A noise from behind made him turn, holding his Gladius out in front of him just as much to ward off threats as to shine a light on them. Now that he knew the rebels traveled the underground often, he had to be extra careful. A moment passed in silence before he decided it must have been some of the rats he had seen from time to time, and he journeyed on.
When he reached the next platform he pulled himself up with little difficulty and walked between two stone columns to search out a ladder. He found one, to his relief, and returned Calumnior to his side for the climb. He reached the top and pushed upward on the circular disc, dislodging it with little difficulty and sliding it to the side. He expected it to be late morning or early afternoon, so was shocked to peer up into a starry sky. Time meant very little down in the tunnels—darkness reigned in day as well as night—but he had either slept much less than he thought or much, much more.
Panic set in at the thought that Grace might already be dead. But what did it matter? There was nothing he could do to help her anyway, was there? Yesterday, today, or tomorrow made no difference. She would die, and he would have to face the world alone.
301 lifted himself out of the underground, abandoning the deep quiet of the tunnels for the chaos of the streets. Thus far he had only seen the effects of the purge from afar, plumes of smoke that alluded to the violence but left its victims in anonymity. Now, in the heart of the city, he could not help but see their faces; he could not help but hear their screams. He felt the heat of the fires that burned the dead, and smelled the foul ruin of charred flesh, wood, and stone.
A patrol of Great Army soldiers passed him in formation, their assault rifles before them in readiness to attack. But they did not move to take on an opposing force, for there was none. Their marks were civilians…people whose only crime was being found in the wrong place at the wrong time. The soldiers barely acknowledged him in his Specter uniform, their shadows like monsters cast on surrounding buildings by the fire. No emotion shone in their eyes. They were dead to it all, like machines.
Gunshots rang out, and he jumped—not from fear, but from shock. At least ten people—men, women, children—fell dead before his eyes. And the patrol moved on. Not a question, not an investigation of any kind. Only terror and destruction and death.
He turned from the scene and began to walk north. After traveling for hours underground he had barely gone a mile from where he first entered the tunnels, and so he chose not to go back down. No doubt they had led him in circles, and if he went back down there he might never find his way out again.
More screams echoed from behind him, and he tried to shut them out. There was nothing he could do for them. They had been dead from the moment Napoleon Alexander ordered the purge. But with Grace in custody it should have ended. The MWR must have gone back on his word, as tyrants do.
Servants of tyrants are no less tyrants themselves.
Jacob Sawyer’s words, on the night his team had been ambushed in the ruins. At the time he had chalked it up to rebel rhetoric, but now he saw the truth in it. He had served the machine, and served it well. Not because he had to, but because he chose to. That made him just as bad as Napoleon Alexander.
So what am I now, running away from it all to save myself? What use is it to stop being a tyrant if I just become a coward instead?
He turned down a narrow street and found another patrol standing right in his path. They jumped at his appearance, nearly raising their weapons to challenge him in surprise, but quickly took in his uniform and relented. 301 didn’t want to speak with them or draw too much attention to himself, but if he turned and left the street now that they had seen him, it was likely they would get suspicious. Plus, they were in the way of where he needed to go.
“Specter Captain,” the leader of the squad—a scarred, older sergeant with cruel eyes—nodded in greeting. “I was not aware that Specter would be participating the purge.”
“I’m here on another matter,” 301 replied. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way.”
The sergeant smirked and motioned for his men to part and allow 301 to pass. 301 fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sergean
t’s obvious disdain, and made his way down the man-made aisle. About halfway through, he saw why all these men were loitering on the small street.
A small group of civilians huddled against the brick wall, only visible through the cracks between soldiers. He saw at least five: three women and two young children. Three bodies lay close by them, unmoving. The women were crying—whimpering in fear—as they held the children close to them. Blood ran down the face of the one nearest him, and they all bore signs of being terrorized.
Upon sight of them, 301 stopped walking. He turned back to the sergeant, who had followed him down the street, “What are your men doing here, with these civilians?”
“Our jobs,” the sergeant spat. “The grand admiral ordered us to sow chaos and fear, so that is what we do. It’s like being a kid in a candy store, Specter Captain—though I suppose you’re not old enough to have ever seen a candy store, so the comparison might be lost on you.”
301’s eyes shifted to the civilians, and then back to the sergeant, “I believe you have sowed enough chaos here. Perhaps it is time for you to move along.”
The man snorted, “I have been given free reign over this sector. The choice of when we are done has been entrusted to me.”
301 paused, “And if I were to order you to leave now?”
He folded his arms over his chest, reminding 301 strongly of an animal attempting to appear larger. “My orders come straight from Grand Admiral Donalson.”
“He’s not here,” 301 challenged. “I am. And I’m a Specter.”
“That’s true, but issues of command structure right now are,” he tilted his head back and forth, almost mocking, “murky.”
“Please,” a whisper came from behind the wall of soldiers, so frail it barely seemed real. “Please, help us.”
“Shut her up, Private.”
“Wait,” 301 said. “There’s no need to continue this now. You’ve made your point.”
The private nearest the woman barely acknowledged 301 and instead looked to the sergeant, proving that the waters of command were, indeed, murky.
“I think it’s time for you to be moving on, Specter Captain,” the sergeant said, the threat in his words plain. “Whatever business you have, I’m sure it is more important than what we lowly soldiers do here.”
301 surveyed their faces, noting their mistrust and the way they clutched their weapons tightly, and concluded that all of these men would obey their sergeant, and not a Specter Captain they did not know. Perhaps if they had been Fourteenth Army men, they might have been sympathetic. But these soldiers were from the Ninth—the very force that had been prepared to destroy all of Specter within the Communications Tower.
There are limits to my power, he thought. I can’t do anything to save these people. His words to Grace just hours before echoed in his mind: The only person you can save is yourself.
So he nodded his agreement to leave the sergeant to his evils, and turned to continue on his way.
“Please!” the small voice grew louder. “Please don’t leave us!”
301 slowed, but did not stop. No doubt his attempt to intervene had given them hope where they in fact had none, and as despair crashed back down upon them they clawed the air for the chance that had slipped through their fingers.
“Get her up,” he heard the sergeant order behind him. The woman’s terrified shrieks rent the air, and 301 heard the cries from his dreams, echoing off buildings in the pouring rain. He heard the pain of Elena Wilson’s torture at the hands of Donalson’s goons. He saw Kacie Jordan’s vacant eyes, dancing before him.
And then suddenly, without really meaning to, he stopped walking. He turned back around, beholding the sergeant as he held the woman—barely more than a child herself—by the hair. She was nothing to the soldiers: just an object to be used and discarded at their whim.
301 retraced his steps, anger rising with each crash of his boots on the concrete. The sergeant, engrossed in the ecstasy of terrorizing another human being, didn’t notice his return until 301 stood right in front of him. When he finally did notice, that look of ecstasy turned to annoyance.
“Specter Captain,” he growled. “I thought we had an understanding.”
301 studied him, a very picture of the evil he had tried to ignore in the World System all his life but had only recently begun to accept. Some soldiers served only because they had to—because if they did not follow orders, it would be their lives and perhaps that of their families on the line. But men like this sergeant—like the grand admiral and the MWR—were cruel out of spite. They killed because it made them feel powerful, because it gave them pleasure.
Such men do not belong in the world with the rest of us.
In an instant, Calumnior flashed to life in his hand and plunged straight through the sergeant’s chest, skewering him like the animal he was. He looked down at the glowing blade where it entered his torso, mouth open in shock, and then looked back at 301 with wide eyes.
Then, unceremoniously, his hand let go of the woman’s hair and he dropped to the ground. He was dead.
The woman lay prostrate on the concrete, body heaving with sobs, and would not look up at him for fear. But she was not what concerned 301 at the moment. The soldiers—at least thirty had made up this squad—surveyed their fallen superior with shock and something akin to betrayal. One superior had just killed another for following yet another superior’s orders.
Who commanded their loyalties now?
From his right came the grating, spiteful command, as if in answer: “Kill him.”
To their credit, the soldiers were fearless. They converged on 301 like a swarm, heedless of the wide swipes of Calumnior that threw their comrades down in brief screams of pain. Assault rifles clattered to the ground, while others went off. For 301 it was like being in the Hall of Mirrors all over again, only this time there were no reflections to slow the mind—and he was not the inexperienced fighter he had been then. So yes, the soldiers were fearless. But they were also foolish.
Within two minutes they were dead, to the very last man.
Amongst the carnage he had wrought in the alley, the civilians hunched over—hands over their heads—as though to protect themselves from an act of God. Perhaps that was how the battle had seemed to them: a tornado of white fire and death, as ready to consume them as it had their captors.
They would not look up at him for fear, and the women actually shook with it. Had he not just saved them? Had he not delivered them from a cruel fate?
One monster delivers from another. That does not change what the monster is.
“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Get to a part of the city where the fires do not burn. Do not attempt to hide until you reach a quiet sector. If you do, they will find you.”
They got up, more from terror of disobedience than happiness at deliverance, and fled from his presence. 301 shook his head and looked down where the body of the sergeant lay. During the entire course of the attack he had kept his feet planted and had barely moved an inch.
I just killed an entire detachment of the Great Army, he thought. Now, I am truly a traitor. But he didn’t care as much as he had once thought he would. Traitor no longer carried the same weight in his mind. He had betrayed the World System in his heart long ago. It had just taken a bit longer for the rest of him to catch up.
No, what he feared now was something different. Something he had never had reason to fear before:
Cowardice.
Guilt and revulsion welled up within him. How could he even think of fleeing to the Wilderness now that Grace had been recaptured? All the pains and tortures she would likely face...how could he condemn her to face them alone? He had to fight for her, even if it seemed he couldn’t possibly win. It’s what she would have done for him.
He spared one last, longing glance to the north—and the starry Wilderness that lay beyond—and then turned to go back the way he had come. But before he had even taken his first step, he froze. A figure stood at the mouth o
f the alley, hooded and robed. Darkness shrouded what might otherwise have been visible of his face, but 301 could tell by the faint light of the moon that this was a warrior. Likely, that meant a rebel.
Calumnior still thrummed in his hand, and his grip tightened. Did the figure intend to attack? Perhaps the sight of so many bodies gave him pause.
The robed figure suddenly sidestepped around a building on the connected street, passing out of his vision.
301 felt his heart thump. What was that about? He made his way cautiously to the intersection where the figure had stood, reflexes primed for an ambush, and peeked around the corner. The robed figure had already traveled some twenty yards, but was making no attempt to hide. In fact, he stopped and looked back at 301 before turning casually down another street.
He wants me to follow him, 301 realized. But to where, and why?
Time was short, but he needed allies. And if this man was a rebel, could he be leading him to more of them? Perhaps he could enlist their help in getting Grace free of the World System.
He let out an exasperated sigh, and followed the figure through the eerie darkness of the city.
32
THE FIGURE LED HIM away from the orange glow of the purging fires into a more tranquil part of the city, and he was so distracted by the disparity that he almost failed to notice where he was. About half an hour into the chase, he emerged into a part of Alexandria that he knew better than any other.
The skyline, the melancholy quiet, even the smell of the area was familiar—of all the places he could have ended up, this destination could be no accident. He looked up and down the road and saw no sign of the robed figure he had been following. No, not an accident at all.
301 felt an unpleasant nostalgia as he gazed up at the simple five-story building wedged between its two taller neighbors, unsurprised with how little it had changed. But there was something…different. Though it had never been a place where happiness dwelt in much abundance, a deep silence rested on the entire block that gave 301 chills. It was as though he had emerged into an atmosphere of death—not the fiery death he had left several blocks behind, but a cold death. A lonely death. The stagnation of it tainted the very air he was breathing.