Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (220 page)

“You will not save your people,” Rodion whispered, and Dean felt the heat of his breath. “Death waits for no man or woman”—Rodion smiled—“or child.”

The words sparked a flame in Dean’s soul. He lunged for Rodion’s face, his fingers catching the general’s beard and he pulled with what strength was left, bringing the Russian’s face to his knee, releasing Dean from the stranglehold upon contact.

Rodion fell backwards, and Dean rounded on him, pounding his face into the tundra, each blow more vicious than the last, splattering the snow around him with blood. The fire roared within him, ending the cold, ending the battle, ending Rodion’s life.

It was Jason who pulled Dean from the dead Russian’s body, his voice screaming into the blizzard, the sprays of frost like dragon’s breath from his mouth. He felt Jason’s hands on him, and heard his voice, but all he could think of were Rodion’s final words. Kemena. I left her alone.

Kemena lay awake in the makeshift bed the guards had put together in her husband’s quarters. While she had her own space, she preferred to sleep here, much to the guards’ dislike, since Dean’s tent was centered close to the soldiers’ barracks. She noticed that the men shrouded themselves in reserve while she was present, no doubt a sign of respect for both her and their governor.

A queer sensation radiated from her stomach, spreading throughout the rest of her body. It sent a shiver down her back. The quiet. I’m just not used to the quiet. Ever since Dean’s departure north to track down Rodion, all that was left in the ruins of their capital were a few of her personal guards, the elderly, women, and children. But out of those groups there was no laughter, no smiles or joy at the fact that they were now home. Their lives had changed, and the taste of war had left a bitter sourness on every tongue.

Kemena saw it in the streets when she walked past people who cast quick, sideways glances. There was resentment in their eyes. They had trusted her husband to keep not just their families safe but also their homes, and all that was left to them now crumbled in their fingertips as they scooped the ash from their plots.

A breeze rushed through the tent, flapping the canvas lightly, and Kemena shifted to her side, clutching her stomach. She rubbed her belly gently, the swell underneath growing every day. The life inside her offered the resolve to push on. She circled all of her concentration around that idea, that whatever despair or loneliness she felt, none of it mattered so long as she stayed strong for her child. For our child.

Another breeze blew through the tent, and the winds brought two thuds with it from outside. The noise startled Kemena, jumping from the bed, slowly backtracking to the rear of the tent.

Dean’s quarters was split into three separate rooms, all with a sheet acting as barriers to provide privacy. The bedroom was in the very rear, and Kemena stopped when she felt the ripple of canvas against her back. She crouched low, her eyes able to make out only shapes in the darkness. She shortened her breaths, and she listened for anything, but only the still quiet of night answered.

Kemena’s eyes were glued to the bedroom’s entrance. Wind rippled the sheets gently, and with each gust, she felt a sudden jolt that shook her bones. She drew in a breath, holding it tightly. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she finally exhaled, softly. She relaxed, feeling foolish over the fear that had consumed her. She pushed herself up from the ground, the earth lumpy and cold. She reached for the bed, and when she pulled back the sheets, two hands violently covered her mouth and squeezed her throat.

“Scream, and I thrust this dagger into your belly and kill whatever seed grows there, understand?” the voice whispered in her ear. Calluses and bits of dirt scraped against Kemena’s cheek, and she gave a light nod. “Good.”

The man’s words sent a hot tickle into Kemena’s ear, and she squirmed and writhed uncomfortably in the foreign arms that held her. Even though she’d agreed to his terms, the man still kept a hand over her mouth, and they slipped out the back of the tent into the night. Her feet stumbled forward, and she did her best to keep pace with the kidnapper’s rapid strides. She found herself glancing at the tents they passed, praying someone, anyone would step outside, but the assassin was skilled in silence, and each time she thought about screaming for help, she was reminded of the man’s threat as she felt the sharp point of steel against her belly.

They made it all the way to the shoreline, and once they were away from the bulk of the city and the people that could hear her, the man released his hold and shoved her forward. In the darkness, it was difficult to make out his features when she turned to look back at him, but from her first glance, she thought the man was Chinese. “Delun sent you?”

The man pointed to the rocky edge where a narrow path opened up to guide them down to the shore. “Walk. And keep quiet.”

Kemena glanced over the ledge, and at the shore below she saw a rowboat beached in the sand, and farther out into the Pacific rested a small shadow, bobbing up and down in the waves, no doubt the kidnapper’s vessel. “You mean to sail me all the way to China? For what? Ransom? If you think my husband will—”

“Quiet.”

The man held the dagger to her throat once more, and both of them froze in the night. Dogs barked from the direction of the city, and Kemena felt her heart leap from her chest. “They know I’m gone. You won’t make it out of this alive.”

The speed with which the kidnapper was on her with the dagger to her stomach was faster than her eyes could process. Her spine stiffened as he applied a light pressure that tore the fabric of her nightgown, the cool ocean breeze slipping into the dagger’s hole. “If I die, so does the child.”

Kemena looked from the dagger at her stomach to the direction of the dogs barking, growing louder in the distance, which now carried the shouts of men. She took a step back, separating her belly from the dagger’s tip, then made her way down the narrow path, the kidnapper following closely behind. While Kemena complied with the assassin’s demands, she offered no haste on the descent. With any luck, the scouts would spot the ship in the waters and send word to the warship Dean had left in the harbor. Right now that was her only hope.

***

The sight of the warships in the bay filled Delun with a reassurance he hadn’t realized he needed. The fleet he’d loaned to Rodion had finally returned, restoring his armada to the full fighting force he would need should the Mars governors be foolish enough to sail against him.

And the day continued to be filled with more good news, as his generals informed him that the north port of Brisbane had been retaken from the Australians, giving Delun another foothold in the country in addition to their occupation of Perth in the west. The gains in the Australian outback had been slow but effective. The Aussies were running out of supplies, despite the New Zealand territory offering its support. The blockade of shipments from Brazil had proved to be too much, and it wouldn’t be long before the people of the country wanted food more than their freedom.

“Emperor.” Fung gave a deep bow as Delun watched his fleet pour into the bay from the Pacific. “I have news from the engineers. They wish to see you immediately.”

Delun smiled. “Threats and fear can do wonders in motivating the unwilling, can’t they, Ambassador?”

Fung raised his head, flashing a look of concern. “Have I done anything to dishonor my emperor?” The words shook off of quivering lips, and Fung lowered his head back down, facing the docks.

Delun rested a hand on Fung’s shoulder and felt the ambassador shudder at his touch. “We will soon see.” He kept a brisk pace to the ship, where the engineers awaited his arrival. All of them remained bowed until he spoke. “Show me.”

The engineers took to their positions, standing on sides of tarps that covered the massive pieces of tech with which they’d been outfitting six of the ships. Marco took the lead in speaking, the hollowness in his voice matching the dark circles under his eyes. “My emperor, we offer you a weapon worthy of your conquest.” He gave a nod to the others, and they ripped off the sheets, revealing ten missiles.

Delun walked over to the weaponry, running his hand down the smooth metal of one of the devices, which towered six feet over his head. “And the guidance systems?” He turned back to Marco, the tone in his voice offering no hint of appeasement.

Marco bowed lightly and gestured toward the ship’s wheelhouse. “Follow me.” The inside of the cabin had been retrofitted with a new control panel with a system far more complex than its predecessor. “We’ve integrated most of the missile features into what existing technologies the vessels already had in place. Radar and communications will lock the target for the missile, and additional vents have been installed in the engine rooms, along with a separate turbine, to provide the system’s power. Your officers have been briefed on the procedures, and all six ships are complete and ready for testing.”

Delun placed his palm on the cool steel of the control panel; he glided his hand across the smooth surface. “I want the officers in training formations now, and I want you to commandeer something large enough that floats and belongs to the locals. I don’t want to waste any of our own ships in testing.”

It was less than ten minutes before soldiers had stolen a handful of fishing boats from the shore, a cluster of angry Philippines residents glowering their displeasure, and piloted them into the bay. The light chop offered easy sailing, and the captain of the vessel steered toward the harbor’s exit. “No.” Delun held up his hand, and the captain removed his grip from the wheel. “I want the tests done in the harbor, where the people can see.”

Marco stepped forward. “Emperor, it would be wise to—”

“Will the missiles work, or won’t they?” Delun snapped, and Marco stepped back into line, bowing his head. He turned back to the sight in front of him. “Do it. Here. Now.”

The captain flicked switches, starting the launch sequence. Delun watched the missiles turn and pivot on the deck, adjusting to the coordinates being fed into their guidance systems. He glanced back at Marco; the engineer’s face was as pale as a ghost.

“Target locked.” The first mate looked to the captain, who gave the nod. “Fire away.” The first mate flicked the switch on the far left, and Delun watched a trail of smoke twist into the sky, clouding the entire deck in white. The missile soared faster than Delun could track it. The entire ship seemed to draw in a collective breath as the system guided the missile to its target, and once the explosion lit up the harbor, sending a rain of splinters from planks and old fishing gear, the breath was released.

Everyone on deck cheered and roared, but all Delun could hear was the sound of the Mars fleet erupting into flames and ash.

***

Dean marched along the Alaskan coast quickly, his feet tripping over rocks and his ankles buckling from sinking into the snow-like shore. The ships were already being loaded, and Dean hadn’t changed out of the clothes from the night before, with blood and black ash still staining most of his attire. Dark circles formed under his eyes as he fought a weight crushing his shoulders, trying to bury him in the Alaskan tundra.

Bits of crumpled paper protruded from the cracks of Dean’s fingers as the sheet lay balled up in his fist. He hadn’t let go of the letter telling him of Kemena’s capture since the moment he’d read it. He glanced back out at the ships, his men toiling to make sail, one of his warships already giving chase to the speedy Chinese vessel that carried his wife and unborn child. They need to move faster. I’ll start whipping anyone who slacks. This type of setback cannot be allowed.

“Dean.”

He turned, barely glancing over his shoulder, as Jason trotted up behind him, his hair and coat wet from the bits of ice frozen in the locks of his hair. “We should have set sail hours ago.” The words spit from Dean’s mouth like venom. He walked to the edge of the shore, where he caught a faint reflection of his face. He recoiled at the ragged man staring back at him, not recognizing the lifeless eyes and aged face. He shook it off, veering toward Jason. “Has the ammunition been loaded?”

Jason sighed. “Our men are still scouring the fields for the dead, finding what Russian weapons are still functional to add to the armory. And we’re still burying our dead.”

“Burn them.” While Dean’s words prompted the use of fire, there was no warmth in them. “The dead care nothing of war.”

“Dean, they have families back home. People who will want to know that they were taken care of prop—”

“Our people will believe what I order them to believe. Now, I said burn them!” Spit flew from Dean’s mouth, and the cold air froze it before it hit the ground.

Jason reared on his brother, wrenching Dean’s collar. “And is that the command of Governor Mars, or Emperor Mars? You think the men will continue to follow you while you berate them whenever they do something that displeases you? Soldiers follow men, not twisted lunatics willing to kill anything in their path.” He shoved Dean hard, nearly dropping his brother into the cold waters of the Pacific.

“This is war.”

“I know it’s war!” Jason’s voice shattered the air, rattling the very bones of the winter hell that circled them. “Our men know this is war! Our people know this is war! But winning this war does nothing if we lose everything! You’re twisted, brother.” The last words deflated Jason, the brief glimpse of rage subsiding.

The first thought that came to Dean’s mind was thrusting his own sword through Jason’s beating heart, and the knowledge of that atrocity collapsed him to his knees. He clutched his chest and leaned over, his forehead touching the frosty ground. All of the grief and pain and doubt and greed and lust that had bedded themselves in his soul were uprooted and thrust into the open with every teardrop that stained the earth. “I’ve lost myself, Jason.”

Jason bent to his knee and reached under his own collar and into his shirt. He removed the four silver sphered pendulums that belonged to their family. He took two of them off and placed them around Dean’s neck. “You are the third-youngest son of Luke Mars. Brother to three. Governor of the Northwest Region. Husband to Kemena Mars. And father of your unborn child.”

Jason’s words shook loose the icy grip on Dean’s mind. His wife, his love, his child, all of it was sailing away from him into the clutches of a man who meant to kill him and his entire family. If Dean couldn’t pull himself together, then Delun would win.