Shadow Fall (The Shadow Saga) Page 7

  Alexander sat up straight and masked his expression with the usual calm indifference, and then touched the window on the laptop screen. Premier Sullivan appeared, smug and confident, the very picture of all the emotions he had been hiding for months and even years. Now that he was out from under Alexander’s shadow he looked like a kid on Christmas morning, though the gifts in this case were of a much more sinister nature. Alexander contented himself to glare at the screen with intense dislike, but waited for Sullivan to speak.

  The silent standoff did not last long.

  “Alexander,” Sullivan smiled cordially. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Premier,” he replied with biting sarcasm. “Though I am a bit hurt you didn’t bother to say goodbye. After all we’ve been through together.”

  “It was for the best,” Sullivan’s smile broadened. “I’m sure you know what this is about, Alexander, so let’s not waste time. I have contacted you to announce the official separation of the Ruling Council from the World System, effective immediately. All the division leaders and generals in the Eastern Hemisphere have pledged their loyalty to us. Apparently you have become a bit of a tyrant, and they’ve had enough.”

  “So now you will make war against me,” Alexander frowned. “But to what end? Will you raze the earth and kill countless innocents until one or both of us is dead? Somehow I have trouble accepting that. You, ever the voice of reason and restraint, plunging the world into the most destructive war of all time? Help me understand, Premier.”

  “Some causes are worth the price we must pay.”

  The MWR laughed cruelly, “And so at last, Sullivan, you become no different than me.”

  “I will let the historians be the judge of that.”

  “Save the sanctimonious drivel for someone else. You think to ride in, a conquering king, the hero who vanquished the oppressive tyrant. You are a fool, Sullivan. What do you know of cost? You will sit back and send other men to die for you, just as I do. When the people of the cities you have stolen see their streets run red with the blood of their sons and daughters, we’ll see if they declare you savior then. When all of this is over, no one will even remember your name.”

  “Care to make a wager on that? I know how much you love games.”

  “I believe we both know the stakes in this game, old friend.”

  “Agreed. Still, there is an alternative to violence.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Imperial Conglomerate of Cities is willing to see reason in this matter. I’m prepared to offer you your life and a comfortable retirement, on the single condition that you step down as MWR in favor of me.”

  “Do you really expect me to accept those terms?”

  Sullivan’s sickening smile faded to a sly grin, “No. But I thought history would appreciate the gesture. So, for the record: you refuse our terms?”

  “Allow me to put it in words you can understand,” Alexander’s tone darkened. “You can have my throne, when you have purchased your passage in the blood of millions and pried the World System from my cold, dead hands.”

  Sullivan leaned in, “Words can’t express how happy I am to hear you say that. Let the games begin.”

  8

  EYES LOWERED AND HEADS bowed in respect as Councilor Gordon Drake strode up the colonnade outside St. Peter’s Basilica, flanked by six of his royal guards. A chill hung on the air that ran deeper than the winter cold, as the soldiers had abandoned their Great Army greens for the white of the new Imperial Guard. Over the past three months there had been a slow but subtle drawback of communications with the cities in the West. Now, what lines of contact remained had been severed. Most telling of all: Drake no longer walked like a Chief Advisor of the Ruling Council. He strode like king.

  Christopher Holt—second of the three former members of the Ruling Council that had masterminded the separation—waited at the top of the basilica’s steps, his expression grave.

  “Good to see you again, old friend,” Drake said as he reached the top of the stairs. His guard split off to attend other duties while the two councilors began to stroll deeper into the basilica. “Though I did not expect you to make the trip so soon. We aren’t due to convene until the emperor arrives.”

  “The plan is in jeopardy,” Holt said. “And I did not want to discuss it over open airwaves.”

  “Are you concerned about Alexander or someone else?” Drake asked with a knowing smile.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that the emperor didn’t seem too enthusiastic about the proposed government of the Imperial Conglomerate of Cities, and that is a concern. The constitution of the new government has been drafted, but if the emperor refuses to sign I don’t know what will happen. Many of the generals and division leaders have pledged to us only because we have promised change.”

  “Oh, we will bring change,” Drake nodded. “You can be sure of that.”

  “Democratic change,” Holt clarified. “What do you think will happen if they learn the ICC is the same farce as Alexander’s Tour of Reconstruction?”

  “They will get in line or new generals will be found. We both know how this works, and surely you see the wisdom in Emperor Sullivan’s decision. We cannot hope to form a functioning democracy and wage war against the World System. Alexander will probe every flaw, irritate every weakness, and only through absolute unity will we be victorious.”

  “And for absolute unity it will take an absolute ruler, I know,” Holt waved off the argument as the two stopped in the portico, and he lowered his voice even further. “But this war, Gordon, is about more than a feud between the Ruling Council and the MWR. It’s more than one man seeking revenge for years of wounded pride. Hundreds of thousands if not more will die in the coming years, and that is a high cost to pay if our only goal is to replace one tyrant with another.”

  “Careful, Councilor,” Drake warned, his expression hardening into a frown. “You may be the Premier’s oldest friend, but that does not make you immune to treason.”

  “Too much is at stake to remain silent. We are all traitors for the moment, and until Napoleon Alexander lays dead we may yet meet our end in a pile of ashes. Just like the traitors who met their end on this very ground.”

  Drake resumed walking, leaving the portico to make his way up into the nave. Evidence of the Roman rebellion’s final battle still lingered, as it likely would for years to come. Indeed, those traitors had failed. But they did not have the weight of the Ruling Council behind them. They were fools, all of them, to fight a cause that could not be won. But this was different. This would not end the same as that.

  “So you have inspected the city’s defenses since your arrival, I hear,” Drake said, changing the subject. “How do you find them?”

  Holt hesitated, evidently loathe to leave the previous conversation behind, “You have done well. We are impervious to all but an aerial strike, and even then they would be hard-pressed to get through our defenses. So long as we hold Gibraltar the World System will be forced into a ground war if they decide to invade. Still, I would prefer if we could keep them on defense. Have you contacted the Chilean-Argentine alliance?”

  “Not yet,” Drake shook his head. “There were to be no third parties—not until the separation. I have not gotten the chance to contact them since the emperor’s departure from Alexandria.”

  “We will need them,” Holt’s lips were thin. “If they allow us to land our troops in exchange for less strenuous tribute after the war, it will make our ground operations less risky. Then we can keep a good portion of the Great Army embattled in South America while we wage a naval war with the North.”

  “Yes, that is the plan.”

  “What have you heard from the others about the emperor’s departure?”

  “I’m sure you know,” Drake said with distaste. “The emperor delayed too long, hoping to salvage his pet project—the entire basis of which was ill-advised from the start—which you unfortunately made more complicated
with your discovery. Orion completed your investigation and convinced the emperor to pull the trigger, but he left without Specter. Needless to say, the others are not happy to see a weapon like that left in Napoleon Alexander’s hands.”

  “Who will take the position of Chief of Command?”

  “I have heard rumor that Sullivan intends to give the Imperial Guard to Elizabeth Aurora.”

  They stopped again in front of the altar of St. Peter, where a great stained-glass dove had once adorned the back of the old church. Now that place was boarded up, as the dove had become yet another casualty of war. Drake turned back to Councilor Holt and saw that his face was white, “Yes, my initial reaction was the same. To entrust this war to someone so young and inexperienced just because of the weapon she carries…it curdles my blood.”

  “It’s not her youth that worries me,” Holt said. “Alexander himself was not much older when the World System was born. Then there are others: Alexander the Great, Augustus Caesar, Ahmed al-Zarif. Despite their youth, all made to conquer the civilized worlds of their times. Zarif was little more than nineteen when he rose up to lead the Persians to war.”

  “And how did that end?” Drake asked dryly. “With him exiled and the world in ruins. Forgive me if I don’t see that as a shining example.”

  “The Persian generals bear the blame for that,” Holt’s expression darkened. “Wars are won by the strength and ambition of youth, but kingdoms persist in the wisdom of those who lead. In their lust for power they sealed their own doom, so forgive me if I don’t see that as our shining example.”

  “Your concern is noted, Christopher,” Drake snapped. “None of us can say what the future will bring with certainty, though I would caution you not to speak openly about this democratic sentiment you have recently procured. You are a great leader, and the ICC would be sorry to lose you.”

  Holt gave Drake a level look. The threat was plain. “And I would caution you and the emperor both, Gordon, not to hold on too tightly to power lest we all go the way of the Persians.”

  Drake smiled and dropped his thinly veiled frustration for a lighter tone, “Let’s win the war first, Councilor. Then we can decide how our new world will be governed.”

  Holt nodded in acquiescence, but Drake saw something stir behind the man’s eyes…something that promised this conversation was not done by a long shot. Drake shook his head and frowned. He would have to keep an eye on that man. As the recent separation proved, the greatest threat to a government always came from within.

  And as the most respected member of the former Ruling Council, Holt could make a formidable threat indeed.

  9

  LINES UPON LINES OF pylons stretched out across the field in front of 301, each home to thousands of vials of the translucent liquid that had sparked civilization’s last Golden Age. Before dawn of that day the liquid had been worthless, a complex chemical compound of no practical use that some might mistakenly throw away. Better that they cast aside a black rock and miss the diamond within.

  After five hours in direct sunlight, three ounces of that liquid were worth more than ten barrels of oil at the height of the petroleum age. It had been the lifeblood of the Old World in its final years and was now the same for the World System—perhaps the only thing the two civilizations shared.

  Solithium. The discovery that saved a nation and destroyed the world. It may have led the struggling Old World into a Golden Age, but it also led to the reconstitution of the Persian Empire. Persia, who unleashed her armies upon the world and laid it to waste; who completed her conquest only to be annihilated in the very hour of her victory; who left the void into which Napoleon Alexander and the World System were born.

  Riches and destruction. Power and collapse. Salvation and annihilation. An important lesson, and one 301 remembered every time he handled one of the small glowing vials.

  He passed the workers as they exchanged the first vials of the day, replacing the crop that shone with the power of the sun with more uncharged liquid. Despite the rebel attack they could not stop the harvest. Alexandrians depended on Solithium to survive, which made the depot one of the most important facilities in the entire city.

  So as he led Specter through the Solithium Fields, he was surprised to find the depot still standing. The World System had been distracted during this attack, pulled into a struggle with the Ruling Council. They had ample opportunity to deal Alexandria a major blow, but didn’t. Why? Because to do so would have brought suffering to the citizenry as well as the Great Army?

  He gritted his teeth as he thought of Grand Admiral Donalson, making his preparations to purge the city. That suffering would come, whether Silent Thunder wanted it or not.

  The Great Army’s response to the rebel attack was abysmal. In the aftermath of the Weapons Manufacturing Facility Alexander had prematurely declared victory over the rebellion, and half the Fourteenth Army had been in a drunken stupor from the celebrations. Those who were still on duty had responded to the Ruling Council’s coup attempt, leaving only a small force to investigate this strike. No Great Army soldier had been near enough during the attack to even witness Silent Thunder’s flight.

  A young lieutenant that 301 recognized from his time in the Fourteenth Army approached them warily as they entered the depot, his eyes wide in expectation of reprimand. He had nothing to fear, but 301 understood the reaction. The commanding officers of the Fourteenth Army could not be described as forgiving.

  Unsure whether to address 301 or Admiral McCall, who stood beside him, the lieutenant’s eyes shifted nervously between them both, “Afternoon, Specters. My name is Jason Holcomb…Lieutenant. I’m the senior officer on site.”

  That about sums up the Great Army’s preparedness, 301 thought. Before the battle that morning this would have been a high enough priority for at least a colonel. “Well, Lieutenant, what can you tell us about the attack?”

  Holcomb gulped, “The best we can figure they attacked in three groups—one for each of the depot’s primary entrances. Each group apparently had a different mission. The first, at the primary entrance, to disable security; the group that came in the north entrance sabotaged the Solithium stores; and the third group…well…”

  “Spit it out, Lieutenant,” Derek said harshly. 301 gave his partner an annoyed look, to which Derek merely shrugged. But 301 had a feeling they had just stumbled on the reason the reports so far had seemed incomplete, and didn’t want the lieutenant intimidated any further. The poor man was already terrified.

  “Of course, sir,” the lieutenant swallowed hard again. “But…well…it might be better if you just see it for yourself.”

  The way Holcomb went even whiter than he already was made 301 wary. What could have spooked him so badly? He motioned for Holcomb to lead the way, and the Specters followed him to the south entrance. More Great Army soldiers waited outside the small lobby, and each wore the same terrified expression as the lieutenant. It was as if they had seen a ghost.

  301 didn’t have to wait long to discover the reason, for it caught his eye the moment they walked into the lobby. Carved into the floor, taller than two men and as wide as one, was a massive Spectral Cross. Everyone in the lobby kept their distance from the symbol, as though to draw near might implicate them in its creation.

  301 strode forward and bent to observe the marks in the floor, then reached out to touch the side of the inch-deep lines. “Definitely the work of a Spectral Gladius, Admiral. It would take a skilled swordsman with intimate knowledge of the symbol to carve it in the amount of time they were here.”

  He remembered the first time he had ever seen the symbol, when Jacob Sawyer ambushed his team and gave him an insignia patch as a token for the MWR. Alexander had explained the meaning to him soon after: They call it the Spectral Cross. Sent in this manner, it is more than just an insignia. It is a challenge—a warning. Only three men would ever have the courage to send this to me. One is dead and the other two presumed so.

  Now two were dead.
That meant this one had to have been drawn by the third, and the message was clear: it isn’t over. Given the dramatic presentation, not by a long shot.

  “There’s something else here,” Derek joined him in examining the carved floor and ran his finger over a shallow carving within the Gladius hilt. 301 moved to read it as Derek spoke the words aloud, “Libertas, Glorificus has fallen, but you are not the last. Renovatio.”

  Derek paused for a moment, “Renovatio. Wonder what it means.”

  “Too bad Miss Intelligence isn’t here,” Specter Marcus said snidely as he came up beside them. “I’m sure she’d have something to say.”

  301 felt a sudden stab in his chest, realizing his first inclination had been to ask Liz. It would take some time for him to get used to the idea that she was gone—yet another friend who was now an enemy, if she still lived.

  “I don’t care about the etymology,” Derek said. “I care about why someone would sign it like that. And Libertas, too…Glorificus…” His eyes widened. “Wait…Captain, isn’t Glorificus the name of Jacob Sawyer’s Gladius?”

  “Yes,” 301 nodded. He knew Derek would get there eventually.

  “Then Libertas and Renovatio must also be the names of Spectral Gladii,” Derek said. “Looks like the rebels use them as call signs. Any idea who the other two are?”

  301 suspected he did know Libertas’ identity. It made sense that whoever wrote this would have directed it toward Napoleon Alexander, so that must be the name of his Spectral Gladius. But Renovatio was a mystery, despite the spark of vague recognition he felt at the name. There was a certain intimacy to the address, as though in calling Alexander by the name of his Spectral Gladius, he was addressing an old friend. What could that mean?

  It means there were Four, all connected. Two lived: Libertas and the mysterious Renovatio. Two were dead: Glorificus and the Silent Thunder leader who had preceded him, Jonathan Charity.