by J. L. Lyon
Until she placed that knife at his throat, and betrayed him.
“You want me to use her grief to forge an alliance?”
Gavin chuckled, “No, my dear. Your ploy with Charles Justus was a good one, I’ll admit, but to make an ally of Silent Thunder could get a bit…messy. I want you to manipulate them into doing our bidding, into distracting Alexander while we make our way up from the south. Once we start taking cities, the Great Army will stir, but they might be reluctant to leave with Shadow Heart pounding on their walls.”
“So we use them as tools, rather than join them as friends,” Liz said wryly. “Then what happens to them?”
“A spear’s point, thrust into the rock, will always shatter,” Gavin said. “Once we have what is ours, we will dispose of the pieces that remain. Silent Thunder has no place in the order that is to come.” The general grinned. “But there may be a place for you, Miss Aurora, if you manage to succeed. Politicians have a way of forgetting our faults, when some great deed is accomplished. I have my assurances from the emperor that if you can deliver the rebellion into our hands you will be welcomed home with open arms.”
The Imperial Conglomerate is not my home, she longed to say. I have never had a home…perhaps I never will.
“Do you accept these terms?” Gavin asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
The general grinned, “There’s always a choice. However, if your choice is to have a fighting chance at survival…then no. All the same, I need your answer.”
Liz hesitated. She wanted to bite back with some snide remark and tell Gavin exactly what he could do with his offer. She wanted to spit in Emperor Sullivan’s face and make him pay for betraying her. But in order to hold on to hope that she might one day reunite with her family, she could do neither.
“I’ll do it.”
“Good,” Gavin nodded curtly. “Gather your bearings. You jump in two minutes.”
Liz’s heart pounded in her ears, “Jump?”
“We are now deep within the heart of the World System,” Gavin explained. “It seems we have been undetected so far, but that will not last. We must get back to the Atlantic. You will be dropped near a significant group we have located in the Wilderness. It is our hope that this group is Silent Thunder, though we are not certain. Derek Blaine’s Spectorium also roams this region, hunting them.”
“You save my life just to risk dropping me back into the hands of the World System?”
“I said I’d give you a fighting chance,” Gavin corrected. “Whether you survive…that’s on you.” He stood and barked his orders, “Private, secure the prisoner and her belongings.”
A young Imperial Guardsman emerged from the corner of her eye with a small backpack. She gazed upon it with hunger, knowing her Gladius must be within. The guardsman hesitated for a moment, looking her over with both suspicion and regret. So respect and loyalty do remain in the ranks, even if it is reluctant.
“It’s not a show, son,” Gavin said. “Get her up.”
The guardsman bent down and released her restraints, then gently lifted her to her feet. She wobbled there for a moment, and sharp pain exploded in her head. Whatever they had used to drug her was still impairing her movements, yet they wanted her to skydive into hostile territory? The Wilderness calls of predator and prey echoed in her ears and made her shudder. Down there, alone, there was no doubt which one she’d be. It was only a question of which predator found her first.
She wouldn’t go down that way.
Focusing her pain into adrenaline, she charged the lieutenant and drove him hard against the bulkhead. He dropped the backpack with a surprised grunt, and she lunged for it. Unfortunately she wasn’t as quick as usual, and a hand grabbed her hair at the base of her neck. Liz went limp, and what little fight she had been able to summon took flight. There could be no more resistance.
The strong hand turned her back around to face Gavin, who stood smiling as though nothing had happened. No doubt he had that extra guard in position, predicting she would try such a move. The lieutenant rose from the floor and again approached her with the backpack, shoving in on her—not so gently, this time—while the second guard continued to hold her with a firm grip.
Once the backpack was secured Gavin nodded, and the guard pushed her toward the hatch. Gavin pressed his hand to the side panel and the door slid open, letting in a rush of cool air. The high-altitude wind howled softly, but Liz was at least glad that the pilot had chosen to hover as opposed to dropping her while in motion.
“Gavin,” Liz said, hating the waver in her voice. “Whatever your opinions about me, I’m begging you to find another way into those cities. All those people…”
“That is no longer your concern,” Gavin replied. “Your only concern now is inserting yourself into Silent Thunder as if you were one of them. We will contact you when the time comes.”
The guard pushed her toward the door, and she put her hands out to prevent him from pitching her into the night.
“You’re right, it isn’t my concern. But it is yours. You should consider what the weight of all those lives will do to your soul.”
“The die is cast, my dear, and nothing you say can alter it. The strikes have already begun.” The general nodded once more to the guard.
One hard shove later she was flailing in utter darkness.
4
THE HIGH COUNCIL CONVENED at the Table of Nine, a name that rankled Emperor Sullivan every time he heard it. Originally there were only eight members of the High Council, but the Citadel had managed to write a clause into the Conglomerate’s constitution for one of its representatives to sit in on their meetings despite his repeated attempts to keep them out. His supposed allies on the Council had even encouraged their inclusion, along with undermining his efforts to maintain control over the growing rabble in his government.
It had been this way once before, before the fall of the Old World, when the threat of Persia loomed large before the eyes of the United States Senate. It was a golden age brought on by the discovery of Solithium, and no one wanted to hear talk of war. Their pockets lined with gold, the senators and their constituents had become pacifists of convenience. But the Persians did not play fair, and by the time the United States stopped arguing over what to do about them it was much too late.
He had vowed never to allow such a travesty to pass on his watch again.
That was the excuse he used to scowl at the Citadel member from across the table, where he sat conversing with the two men who seemed to be helping to chip away the High Council’s power: Councilor Christopher Holt and Councilor Luke Orion. Sullivan wasn’t sure he even knew the member’s name—aside from that it sounded German in origin. He turned his scowl from the unknown nuisance to Orion, formerly his own Chief of Staff. Once he had been able to rely on the man for anything; now he couldn’t say which way he would vote. Holt’s behavior over the past year was even more bothersome. He had an agenda, one that would have had him executed for treason if not for his friendship with Sullivan. In many ways that friendship made what Sullivan had to do much more difficult, but he summoned his anger with the reminder that Holt had betrayed him first. They were supposed to have been in this together, but the man had turned his back in favor of a misguided hunger for redemption.
My list of allies grows thin, he mused. I wonder if this is how it went for Alexander, once the fervor of the System’s founding wore off and people realized what they had gotten themselves into. Sullivan had been close enough to observe the MWR’s transformation from noble hero to oppressive tyrant. It hadn’t happened overnight, but there had been warning signs all along the way.
Am I seeing those signs now? Is it time to turn back?
He steeled himself as the last of the High Council were seated around the Table. No. There is no going back now. It’s win or die, and sacrifices must be made.
“Good evening, Councilors,” he began. “As you no doubt have heard, Rio has fallen to the Imperial Guard. Some work
remains to fortify the city against an attempt by the Great Army to retake it, but for all intents and purposes we now control Division Seventeen. We should be able to move against Lima and Division Sixteen before the week is out.”
“Reports show that the Great Army is not mustering to retake Rio,” Orion said. “Which could be advantageous…or perhaps very bad for us.”
“How so?” one of the others asked.
“Because Napoleon Alexander is a proud man,” Holt interjected. “He would not allow such a challenge to his power to go unanswered…unless he has other plans for us.”
“Explain, Councilor,” Sullivan said.
“It is no secret that when Alexander appeared, the emperor and I both believed his intent lay in restoration. He gave us the impression that his singular goal was to gather the survivors of the Persian Resurgence and help bring back order to our country. All he lacked were the tools. Inspired by his vision, Emperor Sullivan and I gave him those tools.”
Sullivan’s heart sank. No, you old fool. That secret is ours alone, sworn never to be spoken of again. The most monumental mistake of my life and career.
All eyes in the room turned to the emperor, but it was the Citadel representative who spoke, his voice thick with a German accent, “What does he mean by this?”
“You gave him the fleet,” Orion answered, and the emperor heard disbelieving voices begin to whisper among one another around the table.
Sullivan merely glared at Holt, and Holt back at him, “When the Persians invaded, President Crenshaw signed an executive order to hide the fleet so that our enemies could not make use of our technological advancements, namely our Tetra-class ship Infallible. I was the chair of the senatorial committee that approved the order, and Councilor Holt was the Admiral who carried it out. So yes, when the time came, we entrusted our most powerful weapon to the man we saw as our last hope. We gave him the fleet.”
“But he had fooled us,” Holt said. “His goal was not restoration at all, but the creation of an entirely new state where he would wield absolute control. He manipulated us, drew us in by playing on our deepest desperation, and by the time his true intentions were revealed it was too late to stop him.”
“And you think he is doing the same thing now.” Orion said.
“If I know the man at all, I am certain of it.”
“Except that Alexander is not the same man he was back then,” Sullivan said. “He was a passionate warrior fresh from the field of battle. All these years holed up in the palace have changed him. Now he is a shadow of what he once was, a madman who only knows how to follow his latest whim. He does not muster forces to Rio because he does not care, Councilor, but we shall see how he reacts when we make it as far as The Corridor.”
“No one here questions the MWR’s madness,” Holt said. “But he is not a fool, and if we don’t proceed with caution we will fail. I implore you all to see reason. Attacking the cities in this manner and at this pace is a disaster waiting to strike.”
“What would you have us do, Councilor?” Sullivan asked. “Continue for yet another year of war with no progress?”
“I would have us consider how we might achieve victory without this grievous loss of life. One hundred thousand dead in the initial strike, many more thousands in the invasion. We have stained the ground of Rio red with blood, and yet we do not bat an eye as we move to do the same at Lima.”
“Blood is the price of victory in war, Councilor,” Sullivan snapped. “You above all others here should realize that.”
“I commanded men on the high seas,” Holt replied. “I ordered them into battle. I encouraged them to die if necessary for their countrymen and their homes. But never did I ask them to sacrifice life needlessly. Those people at Rio died because of your impatience, and our tactics are becoming far too similar to those of the World System for me to tell the difference between them.”
Sullivan rose from his chair to exert a dominating presence on the room, “I am sorry you feel that way, Councilor Holt—and even more sorry that it must lead to this. Given the councilor’s continued disregard for the well-being of this government, his vocal sentiment that we should dissolve the Conglomerate and return power to the Old World nations, and his repeated lack of decorum in Council proceedings, I recommend that he be removed from the High Council of the Imperial Conglomerate, effective immediately.”
Holt paled, and his expression turned to shock just as surely as if Sullivan had slapped him. The emperor felt a spark of guilt, but pushed it away. Holt had made his own bed; now he must lie in it.
Orion spoke first, as Sullivan suspected he would, “With all due respect, Emperor, Councilor Holt is the most respected man at this table, with a service record that goes back before the Persian Resurgence and even to the Golden Age. In my short time on this Council I believe he has always offered constructive, honest opinions, and to remove him would weaken the Conglomerate.”
One look at the faces of the others told Sullivan that they all felt the same. If it came to a vote at that moment Holt’s position on the Council would be confirmed, and his own position might become precarious. The most respected man at the table? Orion’s failure to exclude Sullivan from that statement spoke volumes.
What would Alexander do in this situation? Sullivan smiled. Kill them all and be done with it, no doubt.
He did not have that luxury, but he did have something else: a tool that was almost certain to sway them all: the twin forces of fear and doubt.
“I do not question the Councilor’s integrity,” Sullivan said. “Nor do I suggest tossing him to the wind. No, what I suggest is that Holt be allowed to return to his former trade, to be appointed Admiral and Supreme Commander of the Imperial fleet. His gifts and his knowledge will continue to serve us well, but his ideas are simply too antiquated for him to remain on this Council.”
“Too antiquated?” Holt demanded. “Because I place value on human life and mourn its loss?”
“Because you value things that no longer matter,” Sullivan said. “You pine after a dead civilization that will never return. You fill our meetings with your constant complaints and warnings, and offer no constructive solutions. Truthfully, my friend, age has made you weak. And the Council needs strength.”
“We will need more than that, if we are to expel one of our own,” the German said.
Sullivan scowled. As if the man had any real right to be there at all. “Council members,” he began. “We once held session where we declared the Old World and its laws, borders, and nations to be dissolved. With the exception of Orion and our friend from the Citadel here, you were all there. The declaration was unanimous. The nations of the Old World are dead. Forever. Councilor Holt, you added your vote to that declaration, did you not?”
Holt’s eyes narrowed, “I did.”
Sullivan pulled a folded cloth object from the side of his chair and unfurled it on the table, spreading it to its full width. Red and white stripes shone alongside a star-strewn background of blue, an iconic sight that almost made the emperor feel nostalgic. Almost. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. “Then reaffirm your declaration. Burn this flag.”
Holt’s face turned even whiter, and his eyes shifted between the matches and the flag, which he looked upon with great affection.
Of all the men in the room, only Sullivan and Holt were from the former United States. The rest came from the South American, European, and Australian peoples Alexander had needed to secure his rise to power, and those looked on the event with relative indifference. Sullivan took that as a good sign. They did not empathize with Holt, at least not in this.
Nearly a minute passed with no sound or movement, so Sullivan pressed his old friend even further, “If the Old World is dead then this flag means nothing. It is just a piece of cloth. The only flag that matters now is the one we all wear: the black, red, and silver of the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities. If you believe this, Councilor…light a match, and burn it.”
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Holt stared long and hard at Sullivan before he finally answered with firm conviction, “No. I will not.”
Many of the councilors were surprised by the refusal, but not Sullivan. He knew exactly what had been brewing in the old man’s mind. “I thought as much. You no longer hold to the laws and decrees made by this Council. Your allegiance is to the nation of your birth.”
“Of our birth,” Holt reminded him.
“A father loves his child more than he has loved any before, even his parents,” Sullivan sneered. “The Conglomerate is my child. The Conglomerate holds my allegiance.”
“Your allegiance is to yourself,” Holt said. “I agreed to this coup because I believed in you, because I knew the man you once were. But the World System changed you, I see that now. You are blinded by your own vanity, caught up in the legend you see yourself playing out—just as Napoleon Alexander was all those years ago. There is no greater tragedy than the man who becomes what he was born to destroy.”
Sullivan snorted, “Alexander would have you burned alive for quoting Charles Crenshaw. I offer you a distinguished position in the Imperial fleet—the distinguished position—and yet you compare me to that monster? Just further evidence that your mind has been tainted, overcome by guilt at all the life lost since our error in giving Napoleon Alexander the lost fleet of the United States. A noble regret, and one I share—but if we followed your reasoning, Councilor…if we kill the Conglomerate and resurrect the Old World, it will all be for nothing. Alexander will roll in and take them all, one-by-one, and every man in this room will be a pile of ashes on the executioner’s pyre—if we are not hanged first by the very people we set free. Is that what you want? Is that what any of you want?”