by J. L. Lyon
Derek Blaine rose from his seat on the roof of the command center and turned to face the soldier. His royal cape fluttered softly behind him and the grand admiral’s rank pin flashed on his collar, “How many?”
“The whole of their Atlantic force.”
Blaine went silent for a moment, deep in contemplation.
“Shall I tell them to engage, sir?”
“No,” Blaine said quickly. “An armada of that size would cut through them just as they did through Detriment and her escort. Tell the patrols to fall back with the remainder of the fleet. Draw the enemy ships into the bay and cut off their escape, then tear them to shreds.”
“And what of the MWR, sir? Should he be informed?”
“You may tell him that his great war has come at last,” Grand Admiral Blaine smiled. “And everything is going according to plan.”
“Yes, Grand Admiral.”
“Alert all units to prepare for battle.”
-X-
Grace stood before the memorial wall deep within the gutted Silent Thunder dome, staring at the names carved crudely into the rock. Many she didn’t know, for they were names Crenshaw had added: people he knew before the fall of the Old World, during Silent Thunder’s trek across the globe and the expulsion of the Persian feudal lords from the continental United States, and finally those who had perished in the First War against the World System. More names would follow, those who had died in the brief Second War. Brief, because in the last three days of meetings with her officers and the remaining commanders, the end of their resistance had been clear.
Silent Thunder was broken.
The commanders and their units had already fled back into the Wilderness, scattering across the wastes so that she could never find them again. Alexandria was a mistake, they said. Attempting to fight in the capital city was a fool’s errand from the start…a suicide mission. So now they would fight nowhere. Fifteen years her father had worked to bring them all back together, and it had fallen apart in days.
Grace had held Silent Thunder together as long as she could, but it had not been enough. Only the 2nd Battalion remained to her now, depleted and disheartened. The Battle in the Central Square had cost them dearly…but despite the fact that it had cost many lives, she could only think of one.
She pulled back her sleeve to reveal the slave’s tattoo and her stomach turned with sorrow. Once the sight of it had brought her great excitement and hope. Now it was but a reminder of what she had lost.
Someone came up behind her quietly, but she did not take her eyes off the wall, “You left his name on the wall, Crenshaw. Why?”
“Because Elijah Charity never really came back to us,” Crenshaw replied. “The man we knew was someone else.” He came up beside her with the inscriber. “Perhaps you should do the honors again, this time.”
Grace took the inscriber from his hands, wondering if she could do Eli’s designation the same justice that she had done for her father’s name. At that point she had still been struggling with his death, still had that feeling that he might walk through the door alive at any moment. Not so with Eli. She had seen him fall…she had watched him die. The memory of that terrible sight stole her steadiness, and as she raised the inscriber to the stone below the name of her childhood friend her hand shook with grief.
But she drew enough courage to write it, holding back her grief as long as possible. She managed the numbers, but when she got to the rest she paused and braced herself against the wall, struggling not to break down. She looked up at what she had written:
301-14-A, beloved.
And suddenly she lost it. Rather than succumb to sorrow, her emotions turned to rage. She dropped the inscriber and stood back from the wall, staring at all the names etched into the stone. All rational thought leaving her, she drew Novus Vita and fell upon the wall as though it was Napoleon Alexander himself, her fiery white blade digging deep into the stone and destroying the memorial with only a few strokes.
Crenshaw cried out behind her in alarm, but she did not stop. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she struck again and again, wanting to destroy every trace of it and just forget. But when Crenshaw finally took hold of her, the rage left as quickly as it came, and she dropped Novus Vita and sank to her knees.
Sobs shook her, and though Crenshaw knelt over her and held her firmly by the shoulders she barely even noticed he was there. The world had become empty. She had no one left. No one but Crenshaw, and deep down she knew that one day he would leave her, too.
I am cursed, old man, she wanted to tell him. All those I love die, so you had best not add your name to the list.
“Everything is going to be alright,” he said softly. “You’re not alone, Grace.”
Only then did it compute that she had destroyed his memorial—names that he had built up over two decades of war. The stone in which their names had been immortalized was now a broken ruin, and she felt ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she said through her tears. “I just couldn’t do it…I couldn’t face it.”
“I understand,” he replied. “I’ve wanted to do the same every time I add a new name to the list…I just never had the courage to let go.”
Grace retrieved her weapon and rose, wiping the tears quickly from her face. She fought down the sorrow in her chest, unwilling to let anyone else see her like this. Defeat or no, she was still the commander, and a commander must be strong even in the face of death. Once she felt in control of her voice again, she asked, “What do we do now, Crenshaw? What can we do?”
Crenshaw bent down and picked up a fallen piece of the wall, “The only thing we can: rise up, and fight on.” He handed the rock to her, and when she took it she saw Eli’s name upon it, unbroken and preserved.
She shook her head sadly, “For years you searched for him, never believing he was dead. Well I didn’t either. Since I was a little girl I felt that Eli was out there somewhere. It was beyond hope…it was expectation. I knew I would see him again. And so when we actually did find him alive, I thought for sure that the feeling had been real…that maybe God had comforted me in those days with the knowledge of Eli’s survival.”
“Perhaps he did,” Crenshaw replied. “I’ve heard stranger things.”
“No,” she dropped the rock back to the ground, where it shattered and joined the rest of the memorial’s ruin. “It was just the dream of a foolish child, the fantasy of a lovesick girl. If I allow myself to think otherwise I might be tempted to believe he’s still alive today.”
“You saw him fall,” Crenshaw insisted. “You watched him die.”
“I know,” she said, running her hand softly along the gashes her Gladius had made in the wall. “I know very well what I saw.”
“Then how could you possibly think he is alive?”
“Because,” Grace said, filled with both hope and terror, “I can still feel him.”
EPILOGUE
THE AMPHITHEATER WRITHED WITH humanity, a constantly shifting mass that reminded Holt strongly of ants scurrying to feast upon some fallen scrap of food. Voices echoed throughout the chamber, an incomprehensible hum that rang in the former Chief Advisor’s ears. Had this been what it was like, all those years ago? Perhaps he had been too far removed from his duties in the United States Capitol to remember, but the process had seemed so orderly, then. His colleagues had been pompous, inane, and self-righteous fools, but at least they had shared his disdain for chaos. Not so with this rabble they had named the Citadel.
The legislative body was only made up of two hundred members, apportioned among the eight cities that the Imperial Conglomerate had wrested from the World System, but none of the new representatives had come alone. Each had arrived with their own entourage, striding into Rome like royalty ready to receive the keys to their kingdoms. How disappointed they would be to learn that they had very little real power...perhaps hope would blind them to that truth.
Members of the Citadel filled a single subsection of the amphitheater, while their combined entou
rages nearly filled the rest. The Imperial High Council sat on a raised dais opposite the Citadel, a distance both practical and symbolic. The emperor’s seat rose above the rest of the Council—his was the place of honor, and so he would arrive last of all.
A shadow fell on him as Luke Orion came down from the upper sections, where white-uniformed Imperial Guardsmen formed a vanguard separating the High Council from the rest of those in attendance. They alone were allowed weapons within the Hall of the Citadel.
Orion sat down in the seat beside him, now his by right, and surveyed the teeming mass with disquiet, “Fine day for a riot, Councilor Holt.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Holt replied. “Congratulations on your elevation, by the way.”
“I understand you had a strong hand in my selection,” Orion said quietly, though amidst the thrum no one else could have heard. “I admit it was profitable being Sullivan’s loyal right hand, but this new place will serve us quite well. Thank you.”
“Whatever I can do to help the cause.”
“Oh you are zealous, there is no doubt about that,” Orion smiled. “You may have convinced Sullivan that the idea for this Citadel came from the generals, but we are not so easily fooled. This was your idea, you just planted it in their heads.”
Holt grinned, “A wise man never reveals his secrets.”
“A wise man might not have done it at all. Noble, of course, to duplicate the Restoration government here in Rome, but you should have learned from Sullivan’s mistake with Specter. Never create something you cannot control.”
“The Citadel is a farce, Orion, you know that as well as I,” Holt shifted in his chair. “An imitation of what is to come. Sullivan has still yet to sign the constitution, and until he does the ICC is a nation built on foundations of glass.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. Still, the Benefactor is uneasy. Should they gain too much popular support, they could become an issue.”
“The people have the right to be governed however they see fit,” Holt replied. “This man—this Benefactor—has no more right to choose that for them than Scott Sullivan or Napoleon Alexander. Tyrants exist in democracies just as they do in dictatorships, Orion. You would do well to remember that.”
“And you would perhaps do well to remember that we are under cover here. Declaring your views where everyone can hear them is not the best course for concealment. I hear Sullivan considered having you removed from the High Council before Drake was killed.”
“A fortuitous event then.”
“I was under the impression that the man was your friend.”
“He was,” Holt nodded. “And a good one at that. But what is it that the Christians say? God does not cause evil, but he bends it to his purpose. Redeems it, if you will, for good.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those as well,” Orion said dryly. “Alexander’s censures on religion will go down as one of the System’s greatest contributions to the history of humanity, mark my words. It is a step society should have taken long ago.”
Holt pursed his lips tightly in consternation and saw from the corner of his eyes that the rest of the High Council had arrived and the Citadel members were watching the dais expectantly. The first session of the new Imperial government was about to begin.
“Have I said something to offend you, Councilor Holt?” Orion asked.
“The notion of denying God-given freedoms always offends me,” Holt replied. “I tend to hold to the designs of my American predecessors who shouted in the streets, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’”
“A beautiful dream, freedom,” Orion said. “But dreams often become nightmares. Keep your passionate fervor, Councilor Holt.” He leaned in to whisper, his voice brimming with sarcasm, “Just make sure no one hears you say that too loudly.”
Holt saw a flash in Orion’s eyes, the kind he had seen on several occasions before when a man had secrets he thought gave him power. He is the Benefactor’s man, the former chief advisor thought. But then, so was I. What does that make me now?
But he had no opportunity to think on it further, for at that moment Sullivan entered the amphitheater to a standing ovation and thunderous applause. Holt shook his head with pity for them all. They thought to herald a savior, when in truth all they did was heap praise upon their next captor.
All hail the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities, he thought dryly. Let it not be long for this world.
To Be Continued in Part III,
Shadow Heart
THE AUTHOR
J.L. LYON graduated from the University of Tennessee with a degree in Political Science and History. He fell in love with storytelling at a young age, and has been making stuff up ever since. He currently lives in Middle Tennessee with his wife, where he is busy at work on the rest of the Shadow Saga series.
To stay up to date on news and also to read blogs and other material by the author, visit the website at http://jllyon.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To all the readers and fans who have been eagerly waiting for this installment in the story of 301-14-A, words can’t express how much I appreciate your patience. Some of you have been waiting to get this far since The Shadow Saga went by another name, and others even longer than that. Sequels are hard, and as a young writer it took me a while to find the true depth of this world. Once I had, I wanted to make sure to deliver the story at its greatest potential. Thanks for sticking with it. You won’t have to wait as long for the next book, I promise.
Special thanks to my grandmother, Jamie, for her investment not only in my growth as a person, but in my development as a writer. After creativity, the most important quality a writer needs is perseverance. We fail many times before reaching success, and without her willingness to support my early publishing efforts, I can honestly say I would not be in the same place in my writing career today.
Thanks to my editor, Jessie Nichols, for her stellar work on both Shadow Soldier and Shadow Fall. An extra set of professional eyes has made a world of difference on the emotional and narrative impact of both novels. You really are great at what you do.
I also want to thank the cast and crew of the book trailer for Shadow Soldier. Page Lynch, you are an awesome director and visionary cinematographer. One day we are all going to be watching your movies. To the actors, Brooke Hutchins, Jared Daugherty, Rachel Daugherty, Isaiah Stratton, and Tom Beckwith: you did such a great job bringing the core personalities of your characters to life. It was definitely one of the coolest experiences I’ve had thus far in my career.
Thanks to my wife Amy who, despite a busy schedule and being in the later stages of pregnancy with our first little girl, still found time to design this book. I love you and appreciate your talents more than I could ever say.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2014 by J.L. Lyon. All rights reserved
The content of this work is the sole property of the author and may not be copied, reproduced, or distributed in whole or in part on any medium currently known or as yet undevised without the express permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual events or people is purely coincidental.
Edited by Jessie Nichols
Cover and Interior Design by Amy Lyon
ISBN: 9780989744126
This ebook has been provided without Digital Rights Management software. It is for personal use only. You cannot print this work or make it available through any public medium. You cannot copy or reproduce this ebook, nor can you upload or facilitate an upload to a device you do not own. This ebook is for use only on your personal devices.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Dedication
Progeny
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
The Path of Shadows
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Pax Aeterna
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright