Shadow Fall (The Shadow Saga) Page 2

  His gaze shifted to the clock on the wall, and he sighed. Still a good while until dawn. Sleep might not find him again, but it would be foolish not to try.

  2

  SCOTT SULLIVAN STOOD COMPLETELY motionless, hands behind his back, watching as the first traces of light crept up onto the horizon. His expression was blank and his eyes were cold as he surveyed the city that would one day be his—the city he would soon be forced to leave. But it would only be a temporary exile. In the courts of the World System he had known power, but it was power limited by Alexander’s whim. When at last he returned to take this city for his own, he would reign supreme.

  Emperor. The title evoked greatness and strength, connecting him to rulers of the past all the way back to the Roman Empire and beyond. But what was Rome next to the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities? Who was Caesar, next to him? Rome and its emperors were but a prelude to him, a foreshadowing of the conqueror who would surpass them all. Where they had failed, he would succeed; where they had fallen, he would stand. He would be feared and remembered in life as well as in death: the great Emperor Scott Sullivan, vanquisher of the mighty World System.

  But that was not the man he saw staring back at him from the reflection in the darkened glass. He saw a man broken by countless compromises to his principles and his passions, all in the name of a government he had only supported for fear of death. Could he continue onward with the illusion of the untouchable ruler? Could he continue to fool those around him and even himself, when deep within his soul sounded the cry of the man—the man of principle—he once was?

  Or had the tragedy of his circumstance placed an irrevocable imprint upon him, banishing that man of virtue to the recesses of his mind forever?

  Lust for power had taken its toll. After all, of what worth was humanity when the divine was right in his grasp? He could become a god…a savior who would deliver the world from the cruel hand of its oppressor and grant it new life. His name would be spoken among the legends for centuries to come.

  All he had to do was sacrifice millions of lives to get there.

  The sudden snap of his office doors startled him from his reverie, and he turned—half-expecting to find a column of the palace guard there to place him in chains. The longer he stayed in the palace, the more paranoid he became. He breathed a sigh of relief, however, when he recognized Orion. The man wore a grave expression—one that suggested his relief might be short-lived.

  Orion shut the door carefully and strode forward, a blue folder clutched tightly in his right hand. He looked around the office suspiciously—an act that always sparked a flare of jealousy in Sullivan. His quarters were impressive, but nowhere near as lavish as those of the MWR. For that reason he preferred to receive his guests in the Hall of Advisors.

  “Is this room secure?” Orion asked.

  “Yes,” Sullivan replied. “What do you have?”

  “The results of the investigation into the Shadow Soldier’s file,” Orion said. “I suggest you read it, sir…right now.”

  Orion placed the folder on the desk between them and slid it forward, then stepped back as though to get out of the way. Sullivan reached down to open the folder, and the room went eerily silent as he read the first page—the silence before a tempest.

  At long last Sullivan spoke, his voice barely a whisper, “Is there any chance, Colonel, that what I’m seeing is a mistake?”

  “No, sir,” Orion said. “I checked and rechecked. The Shadow Soldier is not who we think he is.”

  “Does he know?” Sullivan tore his eyes from the page and returned them to his Chief of Staff. “Does the Specter Captain know the truth?”

  “Does it matter, sir?”

  “No,” Sullivan closed the file. “I suppose it doesn’t.” He stepped back to the window behind his desk and gazed once again upon the horizon. The sun’s gleam turned the skyscrapers into burning embers, his favorite time of the day. “It would appear our last excuse for delay has been removed. We cannot use the Shadow Soldier now. The time has come to move.”

  “Move, sir?”

  Alexandria, pearl of modern civilization, center of Earth. I will return for you.

  “Yes, Colonel,” Sullivan closed his eyes, shutting out the vision of the great city which he now must leave. “There’s no longer any reason for us to be here. Begin the final evacuation.”

  -X-

  Elizabeth Aurora’s bright blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling in 301’s bedroom, the pit in her stomach growing larger as the guilt of the previous night washed over her. She felt dirty, covered in the grime of her transgression—not because she had seduced 301, but because she had used him. There was something she wanted, and sex had become the only currency by which she could get it.

  But that wasn’t how it started. She and 301 had been on-again, off-again throughout their teenage years. In many ways it had been the only thing she could really count on. When she returned to Alexandria after their year apart, she had hoped to rekindle that old spark. And then came Sullivan with his mission, and his promise, to corrupt it all.

  She thought to win back the affection of a man, but instead found herself resorting to old tricks, using her body as a weapon to get what she wanted.

  Even so, she had failed. 301 was not the same. He had always been a complicated man, but there seemed to be something deeper about him now, as though there was a part of him she just couldn’t reach. Perhaps she made her move too late. He had fallen in love with another woman—a slave, no less. Since then she had tried everything to win him back, to no avail.

  He loved that woman, despite what he tried to tell her. A woman always knew—it was in the eyes, in the vacant expression. And every time Liz saw it she knew that even if she gained power over 301’s body, Grace Sawyer would always have his heart.

  She felt the warmth of his body next to her, and turned to gaze at him. He slept soundly, at least for now. The past two nights he had woken in a cold sweat from some nightmare, though he would never tell her what it was about. She often wondered with a hint of jealously if he dreamed of Grace Sawyer.

  The thought of him pining after another woman while next to her—while in her arms—made that empty pit in her stomach that much harder to bear. What did Grace Sawyer have that she didn’t? Was it that midnight hair, those mysterious and guarded eyes—or perhaps the illusion she presented as the damsel in distress?

  An answer came unbidden to her mind: She has a heart. You lost yours long ago. Her throat constricted and her eyes moistened, but she fought back the emotions before they could reach the surface. If she had to give her heart in order to receive one in return, she would rather be alone. The men in her life had only known how to grind a woman’s heart into dust, and so it was best to keep that heart buried. But she had kept it buried so long and so deep that she didn’t know if she would ever be able to find it again.

  She blamed the Capital Orphanage. They trained her to be a cold and calculating warrior—to use everything she possessed to advance her own fortune and power. Beauty was the most valuable of those possessions, and she wielded it every bit as well as 301 wielded a sword. Her body was yet another weapon in her arsenal, and over the years it had proven to be a much more potent advantage than any blade or firearm she could carry. But eventually such tactics take their toll, and rarely a day went by when she didn’t desire to feel…loved. It had been so long since she felt that—if she had felt it then at all.

  Her earphone beeped on the side table next to her, and her heart pounded with dread. She reached for the wrist device to see who it was, and her fears were confirmed: a blocked call, which could mean only one thing. She retrieved the earpiece, put it in, and turned her head away from 301 as she pressed receive. Then she whispered, “Specter Aurora…go ahead.”

  “Separation priority message,” an automated voice replied. “Aurora, Elizabeth. Execute Evacuation Protocol B. Repeat, execute Evacuation Protocol B. Extraction in thirty minutes.” The line died, and Liz froze. The consequ
ences of her deal with Sullivan were now to be reaped, in the contingency he had assured would never come to pass. She wanted what he offered her more than anything. All he asked, in addition to the pound of her own flesh she had already given, was one final sacrifice.

  A sacrifice she didn’t know if she could make.

  Trying not to think too hard about what she had to do, Liz leaned over the side of the bed and reached to where 301’s weapons belt lay, thrown haphazardly on the floor the previous night. Her hand closed around the nearest weapon—his battle knife—and she raised herself back up, shifting to face him as he continued to sleep. With her free arm she lifted her upper body and came to rest against him, feeling the direct warmth of his skin on hers.

  She held the knife above him and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the plunge.

  But she hesitated for one moment, and then two. The tip of the knife came to rest against 301’s neck, and she willed herself to do what must be done. What was 301 to her anyway? Just another man who had taken advantage of her…who had used her. And only after he had spurned her affections in favor of another…a woman she could never replace.

  Even summoning her anger was not enough, and her hand began to shake as her will fought against her conscience. There was still a part of her, despite everything, that cared for him. She could not kill him.

  At almost the very same moment she made her decision, 301’s eyes snapped open and his body tensed as he stared at her—and then the knife—with astonishment. “Liz? What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, 301,” she said with sincerity, and slammed the butt of the knife into his temple, sending him back into a forced slumber.

  She stabbed the sharp end of his knife into the side table and stepped out of bed, gathering her clothes from around the room. She dressed quickly, then walked around to the side of the bed where 301 lay. She knelt over him as she fastened her weapons belt, and brushed his lips lightly with her own one final time.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered.

  Liz straightened and walked away, pausing for a few seconds to look back at him from the doorway before leaving the suite.

  The hallway was deserted—not surprising, given that it was barely past sunrise. Her comrades should still be asleep. She stopped in front of the elevator and pressed up. Quick movement to her left made her reach instinctively for her Gladius, but for the moment she refrained. Without turning to look, she recognized Derek Blaine’s arrogant stride. What was he doing there? Did he know, somehow?

  Blaine stopped at 301’s door, about halfway down the hall from her position, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Of course. He was just coming to meet his partner. She chanced a look at him, knowing his eyes were already on her. Blaine smirked knowingly, as though catching her making the walk of shame. Then he knocked on 301’s door.

  Liz pressed up again, her heart rate increasing with the anticipation. 301 lay unconscious. He would not come to the door. How long before Derek forced his way in and found her out?

  “301!” Derek knocked again, a trace of concern in his voice. “I know you’re in there, I can see your girlfriend out here!”

  Come on, she thought impatiently at the elevator. Why was it taking so long? She eyed the stairs to the right, and shook her head. No way she was climbing the stairs to the docking bay. That was more than 50 floors!

  Derek pounded again, and at last the elevator doors opened. Liz nearly jumped inside, pounding the button for the docking bay and pressing it several more times for good measure. The doors closed, and she slumped back against the cold steel. That was close.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the stainless steel doors and let out an exasperated sigh. Her hair was a mess. She did her best to look presentable as the elevator rose—without stopping, thankfully—but affected little change. Well, she thought. Not the most pressing thing right now, after all.

  The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened, allowing her to step out onto the docking bay floor. A group of ten palace guards stood in the lobby, blocking her path. Palace guards? At the Spire? Sent by Napoleon Alexander, perhaps, to bar her escape?

  She reached for Ignis, and the lead guard held up his hands, “Hold, Specter Aurora. We bring word from the emperor.”

  -X-

  Derek Blaine tried for a third time to reach 301 by phone. Still no answer. He pounded again on the metal, so hard it stung his hand, “301! Can you hear me?” Derek felt a sinking in his gut—the very same sensation he experienced on the eve of battle. Something was just…wrong. He placed a hand on Exusia and pounded one more time, “Captain, if you don’t answer me in three seconds I’m coming in! One! Two! Thr—”

  The Spire’s screaming alarms drowned out Derek’s final word, and he activated Exusia by instinct.

  “Blaine!” Derek turned to see Admiral McCall marching in his direction, Spectral Gladius in hand. Though he didn’t know why, there was something in the admiral’s stance that alarmed him. For all he knew, McCall could be a part of whatever was happening. Derek moved Exusia between them as the admiral drew closer.

  “What’s going on, Admiral?” he asked suspiciously.

  McCall eyed Derek’s blade with cool understanding, “From what I’ve been able to ascertain in the last few minutes, there’s been an uprising—of which I am not a part, by the way.”

  “An uprising?” Derek asked. “You mean the rebellion?”

  “No,” the admiral shook his head. “This is something else. Premier Sullivan and the majority of his staff are missing, and several officers and personnel loyal to him are also AWOL. There are reports of battles in the city, one right here in our own docking bay. For all intents and purposes, it appears we are on the cusp of a civil war.”

  Derek’s eyes narrowed, “Then how do I know—?”

  “If I was fighting for the other side, I certainly wouldn’t approach you, now would I?” McCall retorted. “Not to mention the valuable time I would already have wasted in conversation, seeing as I could certainly have bested you in a duel by now.”

  After a moment of consideration, Derek dropped his battle stance, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Admiral. I’ve never actually seen you in action.”

  “I daresay you’ll get your chance soon enough,” McCall glanced at the door. “Where is the Specter Captain?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to reach him by phone, but he hasn’t—”

  “Break it down,” McCall ordered. “Now.”

  Derek cut a hole around the door’s magnetic lock and kicked the metal slab hard, knocking it loose so that it slammed into the floor. He leapt over the threshold with Exusia in hand, “Specter Captain? Are you here?”

  He rushed to the bedroom and found 301 lying still upon the bed as though asleep. “Captain!” he yelled, drawing nearer. “Captain, wake up!” And then, considering that the alarms had not roused him, Derek concluded that his partner must not be able to wake. He checked the side of his head and found a fresh welt that confirmed that theory. His chest still rose and fell, however, so he wasn’t dead.

  Derek came alongside the bed and shook 301 violently, “Captain, wake up. Wake up!”

  301 stirred and let out an anguished groan. His hand shot up to his injured temple and he barely opened his eyes, “Derek? Why are you here?”

  “What happened, 301?” Derek asked. “Who did this to you?”

  “It was Liz,” he said groggily, shaking his head in disbelief. “I woke up and found her over me, about to stab me with my own knife. Then, everything went dark. She must have knocked me out.” At that moment he distinguished the alarms and motioned to the ceiling, “I suppose that’s her?”

  “Yes and no,” Derek said. “She’s part of it, I think, but whatever is happening, it’s all over the city.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” 301 sat up. “Why would she try to kill me?”

  Derek pulled the knife from where it had been stuck in the side table, “Orders, I presume. Orders that i
t appears she didn’t follow.” He paused and handed the knife to 301. “Now hurry up and get dressed. The admiral is waiting for us.”

  301 nodded and with Derek’s help rose to his feet. He threw on his uniform with surprising speed, despite the occasional stumble from lingering dizziness.

  “After this is over, Captain,” Derek said with a smile. “You and I are going to have a long talk about your taste in women.”

  3

  301 TAPPED HIS FOOT impatiently as the elevator rose toward the docking bay, mulling over every moment he had spent with Liz since her return to Alexandria. How long had she been working for Sullivan? How much of their relationship had been just a part of the job? Was any of it real?

  He had suspected a deeper connection between her and Sullivan after she went to him in the wake of their conspiracy to free Grace—but nothing like this.

  “All Specters have been accounted for,” McCall said dryly over the hum of the elevator. “Except for Aurora and Tyrell. Considering that the alarm was triggered in the bay, we can assume they are attempting to escape—if they haven’t already. Central Command reports a massive Halo exodus from the city, but as of yet they can’t tell where they are headed.”

  “Have they sent ships in pursuit?” Derek asked.

  “Yes,” McCall nodded. “But once they get about ten miles from shore they just vanish—no communications, no radar, nothing. Whatever’s going on, Aurora’s objective must be to reach that blackout zone and make contact with her allies. Our job, Specters, is to stop her.”

  “We must assume at this point that Tyrell is involved as well,” Derek said. “He is her partner.”

  “You’re right,” McCall’s Spectral Gladius came to life. “Best be prepared.”

  Derek and 301 activated their own weapons as the elevator slowed to a stop. The doors opened and all three men froze. Mist covered the entire docking bay, and in their brief seconds of hesitation it began to invade the elevator as well. 301 could barely see five feet in front of him, and the silence created an eerie sense of loss reminiscent of a battlefield in its aftermath.