by J. L. Lyon
“You know what I want, Scott.”
“Yes, I do,” Sullivan said. “Redemption, at any cost. Well you can seek it to your heart’s content, but I will not allow you to risk the security of this government any further with this hopeless agenda.” He looked the councilors over and saw that their expressions were troubled. They were ready now. Like him, they knew what had to be done. “I call the vote. Those who believe Christopher Holt’s talents would better serve us at the head of the fleet than at this table, make it known by standing.”
No one moved for nearly half a minute, an eternity of stillness during which Sullivan fought not to panic. To take a stand against another council member and fail would seriously damage his standing within the government. He could not afford to lose here.
But then the councilor to his right rose, followed closely by the man on his left. One more, Sullivan thought. One more and the vote will be mine. It didn’t matter which way the Citadel member swayed, for this was a matter for the High Council alone. In the event of a 4-4 tie Sullivan’s vote counted as the tiebreaker.
Still no one else moved. Sullivan felt heat rising from his collar, and sweat trickled down his back. I am undone.
And then—to the shock of every man in the room—Councilor Holt rose to his feet, fists planted on the table in front of him and his expression resolute, “Let us not continue this farce and engender division among us, gentlemen. If it is the emperor’s wish that I no longer sit on the Council, I willingly offer my resignation. I have never been much of a politician, and so I have no interest in these political games. Let the emperor speak his will in the matter and we will be done with it.”
Sullivan paused and glared at Holt across the table. Was the man trying to entrap him? To make him look a tyrant in the eyes of the remaining members? No, he decided, noting the tired expression in his eyes. He does not test his emperor now, but his friend.
And as much as a part of him wanted to give in, he had to act for the greater good.
“I accept your resignation, Christopher,” Sullivan nodded. “If you will please remove yourself from these proceedings and report for duty…Admiral.”
Holt tore his gaze from the emperor and gazed down longingly at the flag still spread across the Table of Nine. His eyes glazed over as his fingers came to rest on the red and white stripes at its base, “I wonder if I might have this, Emperor—a parting gift, in return for all my years of service on this Council.”
Sullivan bit back the automatic refusal that threatened to erupt. He had known Holt would not burn the flag; it had been a bluff from the start. He could not allow fire to consume something so valuable. Oh, he had been truthful about the sentiment: as the United States was dead, the symbolic power of its star-spangled banner was dead as well. But it was one of the few American flags left in existence, probably worth more than every Council member’s weight in gold.
He had taken something valuable from Holt, and Holt responded in kind. Sullivan had no choice but to agree, if this meeting was to end amicably. “Take it,” he said grudgingly. “But see to it that she never flies again.”
Holt bundled up the flag with care, “I will give her the retirement she deserves, I promise you that.” The former chief advisor and now deposed high councilor nodded his farewells to the other members, and spared Sullivan but one disappointed glance before departing from the Table of Nine for the last time.
My list of allies grows thin indeed, Sullivan thought. And my list of friends stands empty.
“Well then,” his voice cut through the silence. “We will follow the same procedure for the selection of Holt’s replacement that we did when Orion was raised. Make your nominations and we will cast our votes in the coming days.” And who would I like to fill the empty seat? Someone easy to control. Someone like that fool who now held the title of the Magistrate of Rome. Costa, was it? “But for now, on to other matters. There has been some disturbing news from the ships we sent after the Golden Queen. Orion?”
Orion, who Sullivan knew must be shocked and angered by Holt’s removal, spoke with his normal cool authority nonetheless, “The vessels chased Aurora’s band of traitors deep into the Indian Ocean, where they engaged and destroyed it. The Golden Queen and her crew now lay at the bottom of the ocean.”
“And how is that news disturbing?” the Citadel representative asked.
“Because our ships soon joined them,” Orion replied. “Our last communication from the captains indicated they were under assault by seven Persian cruisers.”
“Persian cruisers?” the representative asked. “But that’s impossible. Alexander laid Persia to waste, and those few who survive hide in their desert caves. They don’t have the technology to float a raft, much less launch seven cruisers. They must have been mistaken…or tricked, even.”
“Could be,” Sullivan admitted. “a design to draw our eye away from the System and toward a phantom target within a dead empire.”
“But how did they know the location of our ships?” Orion asked. “If not for the Golden Queen we would have no reason to sail that far south. More likely, they happened upon our ships while en route to another location. Their trajectory suggests they were headed for Domination Crisis Eleven.”
The faces of the other councilors expressed concern while the Citadel’s representative was only confused, “Domination Crisis Eleven? Why would anyone want to go there? The population of those islands is dead, starved out by Napoleon Alexander’s barrier.”
Sullivan grimaced. Yet another sign of the ineptitude of the Citadel, for one so high not to have learned of Alexander’s many deceptions. “That is a false rumor, begun by Alexander years ago to salvage his pride. In truth the islands have flourished, their three greatest cities growing to marvels beyond even what they were before the resurgence of Persia. Alexander never did try to assault them again after that initial failure, though he does have his spies.”
The representative shook off his shock, “But…Persians! Who would befriend them, after the destruction they unleashed upon the world?”
“War and aggression change things,” Sullivan said. “Sometimes enemies become friends and friends, enemies. It is the breath of civilization, the dance of nations. And we all move in tune to its music.”
“Then what should we do?”
Sullivan hesitated. If those ships had actually been Persians, then they represented a very real threat to the future of the Imperial Conglomerate. However, that threat still paled in comparison to the struggle to overthrow Napoleon Alexander’s regime and restore order to the Divisions. That had to come first, and it had to take center stage.
“We do nothing, for now,” he replied. “We might one day find them potential allies in our struggle against Napoleon Alexander. But if not, we will assimilate their civilization into our own. I will keep you all apprised of the Imperial Guard’s progress. Good day, gentlemen.”
-X-
Admiral Christopher Holt finished folding his white high councilor’s uniform and set it on top of his desk. What little objects he had brought to fill the spacious office were now stuffed in a single box for better portability—all except the American flag, which he kept tucked safely beneath his arm.
No one had asked him to vacate the office, but he figured it would only be a matter of time. They had no choice but to replace him at the Table of Nine, and when they did there would be no room for an old admiral who had trouble keeping his mouth shut.
Holt knew he should be angry—furious, perhaps. One of his oldest friends had betrayed and cast him out. His life’s work and his career as a political leader were over. But strangely, he felt relief. As he had donned the uniform of a naval officer once again, he couldn’t help but feel that he had come home after a long time away. The deck of a ship was where he belonged, and the thought of his return made him feel as giddy as the day he first fell in love with the sea.
A knock on his doorframe made him look up, and he saw Orion standing back in the shadows of the hall
.
“Come in, Orion,” he said gruffly. “No sense lurking.”
The younger man crossed the threshold slowly and surveyed the barren walls. “Not wasting any time, are you?”
“No reason I should. You heard what happened in there. I have my orders.”
“You’re okay with that, then? Taking orders, instead of giving them?”
Holt snorted, “Is that what you think it means to be a High Councilor? You’re in for a rude awakening. High Council, Ruling Council—it doesn’t matter what it’s called, we’re all just pieces on a board, moved at the whim of our betters. In the World System it was Napoleon Alexander. Now it’s Scott Sullivan, a man who is but a shadow of the friend I knew. You’re no more free than I am, Orion, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.” Holt grabbed the box full of his things and made for the door.
Orion spoke before he could leave, “You know what’s coming, Admiral. We’ve both known, before Sullivan even thought to hatch this scheme. The signs are evident. Silent Thunder. The defection of the Shadow Soldier. And now, the Persians. The Restoration is getting ready to move.”
“Yes,” Holt said softly over his shoulder. “But I’m afraid I’m no longer in a position to do anything about any of that. I leave you to continue the good fight, Councilor. If you have need of me, you know where I’ll be.”
“Where is that?”
Holt continued walking and passed into the long dark hall, “On my ship.”
5
THE CANVAS OF LIZ'S parachute floated lightly on the breeze, shielding her from the starry sky. Her heart sounded out from within her chest like a drum, and her breathing was still irregular despite being on the ground for several minutes. Sweat beaded on her brow—though it was cold enough to see the vapors of her breath—as her mind processed what had just happened.
She had never been afraid of heights, but she wasn’t fond of jumping out of aircraft. That Halo had been nearly two miles above the ground when they pushed her out, a maneuver she hadn’t practiced since Specter training. A year was long enough to forget the thrill of the freefall, but luckily not the tactics that had saved her.
Liz was on her back now, arms splayed out to the side, parachute still attached. She had not moved a muscle since making a safe landing—near five minutes ago, by her guess. You need to get up, Liz, she urged herself. If anyone had been tracking that Halo they would have seen her fall—and they would be coming.
Her elbows dug into dirt and rock as she struggled to rise. The pack they had given her held the parachute and not much else, but she was only concerned whether it contained one thing. She slipped it off her shoulders, unzipped the back pocket, and rummaged inside. Her hand emerged with a red ruby cylinder, and she sighed. Ignis.
Now, she knew, she had a chance.
Gavin had also left her a sidearm with one full clip, a hunting knife, and four power bars—enough nourishment to keep her going for about thirty-six hours. The base of her Gladius read 99, much higher than what it had been before her meeting with the Citadel. Gavin must have given her a fresh vial of Solithium. Kind of you, old man.
During her drug-induced escape attempt, she hadn’t taken notice of the clothing they had put her in: a fur-lined coat that was light but incredibly warm, and pants that covered leg warmers. Both were completely black, aside from the fur—perfect for traveling by night through the Wilderness. Gavin had also taken care to give back her weapons belt.
All of this told her that despite his indifference before the eyes of his men on that Halo, Gavin really did want her to succeed. But did she want to? Now that she was technically free of Sullivan and the Conglomerate, why go back?
Because no one else will have you.
She shook off the notion. Self-pity would not help her survive the Wilderness.
Liz placed the weapons in her belt, the power bars in the interior pockets of her coat, and discarded the pack. She raised the hood of the coat to shield her cheeks and ears from the soft—but bitingly cold—wind, and paused to take stock of her surroundings.
The only clue Gavin had given as to her location was that they had dropped her somewhere deep in the Wilderness, which she took to mean that she was as far from civilization as was possible to get—probably in the vast expanse between Carolina and the Corridor. For two decades the World System had maintained a network of military outposts throughout the Wilderness to keep the Undocumented population in check, but that was another thing that had ended with the arrival of the Imperial Guard.
From the looks of it, she had landed on an old highway, probably not used since the fall of the Old World. It was wide enough for eight to ten vehicles, separated at the halfway point by a cracked concrete barrier. The road itself was worn with age, broken and rocky to the point where no vehicle could possibly pass through. But once, it was part of a system of roads that gave life to a nation just as surely as veins gave life to a human body. Interstates, she believed they had been called.
As she strode along the treacherous road, she caught sight of an old marker that had fallen alongside the concrete. It too was worn from age, but she could still make out a number on its face: 40. Forest stretched on both sides of the road, even encroaching upon it at points, but in the night she could see little else. The thought of what might be lurking in the darkness, watching her, did not set her heart at ease. She placed a hand over her Gladius and walked on, with no idea how she was supposed to find the rebels. Chances were good that she would die of exposure—if one of the Wilderness predators didn’t find her first.
Liz followed Interstate 40 for hours, her mind on the brink of panic at every noise that echoed to her from the dark forest on either side. The shadows of demons lurked over every rise, and the fact that she knew they would coalesce into harmless stones did not stop her fear. For a time she wondered if the sun had simply forgotten to rise—that she would be left here in this hell of darkness forever.
Her movements became slower over time. The coat kept the icy night off her skin, but it didn’t stop the cold air from entering her lungs and spreading through her veins, freezing her from the inside out. Little by little it sapped away her already depleted strength, until finally she knew that she could not go on.
But what could she do? Build a fire? Then anyone around for miles would know where to find her. Then again, maybe that was exactly what she wanted, so long as Gavin’s intelligence about the rebellion proved true. In the end she had no choice, for without warmth she would certainly die.
She made her way cautiously to the treeline to gather brush from the side of the road, forcing away images of what horrors must lay within. To her relief, she didn’t have to leave the concrete, as plenty of wood lay strewn haphazardly in places where the forest had begun to reclaim its territory over the area once conquered by man. Still, she was glad to put distance between herself and the woods again as she made her way back to the center of the interstate.
Liz dropped the sticks and brush in front of the cracked concrete divider and unclipped her Gladius. A match would have been easier and more energy-efficient, but as Gavin had not left her any she had to make do.
The white blade came to life in her hand, its presence comforting her with the reminder of its power. So long as she held this weapon there was little anyone could do to stop her—perhaps not even Mother Nature herself.
She touched the side of the blade lightly against the brush, and waited. After a few moments the heat from the diamond armor grew strong enough to overcome the cold, and the brush ignited.
Liz nurtured the fire as though it were life itself, doing her best to ignore the increased awareness of cold that the fire created. Apparently her exposure to the cold had gone further than she originally thought.
With nothing to do but sit and try to stay warm, Liz took some time to think deeper on her location. It was the dead of winter, and she had managed to walk for hours with only minimal protection before having to build a fire. That suggested she was not v
ery far north—probably at least a hundred miles south of the Great Army outpost in what had once been the heart of Kentucky—a waypoint between Carolina and The Corridor. She was in the deepest part of the Wilderness, where civilization had long fled and nature once again reigned supreme. There might not be a living soul within a fifty mile radius.
Once she was confident that the fire would survive, she deactivated her weapon and returned it to her side. Its absence stole away some of her courage, bringing the reality of her situation back into sharp focus. She was alone, in the deepest part of the Wilderness, hunting for a woman who was not likely to be found. It was far more likely that the rebellion would avoid her and that Derek Blaine’s Spectorium would be the ones to investigate. His was not a face she was eager to see again.
She passed half an hour by the meager flames, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth to stay warm, only feeding the fire when it absolutely needed it. Her thoughts strayed to wondering which would be worse: dying of hypothermia and exposure, or being captured by Derek Blaine. She had heard tales of him in the past year that made her skin crawl, and while she knew that the truth was often exaggerated when it came to enemy leaders, some rumors find their foundation in at least a shred of reality.
Liz didn’t find it hard to imagine Blaine as a ruthless warlord, though she did have a difficult time believing the stories of his wanton brutality. She had met many men in her lifetime who believed death was too good for their enemies. Blaine was not like that. He was smarter, more sophisticated—ruthless, still, but not brutal.
Except where Silent Thunder was concerned. They had apparently become somewhat of an obsession for him, leading him to create the Spectorium—a special force within a special force—with the specific purpose of hunting down the rebellion’s main group…namely, of capturing Grace Sawyer. Many in the Imperial Conglomerate had wondered at his seemingly irrational hatred of her, but they had not been witness to the two worlds of 301-14-A as she had. Now that he was gone, those two opposing forces were free to collide at will.