Shadow Heart (7 page)

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.”

T
HE CANVAS OF
L
IZ'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 very 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.