The Scarlet Empress (35 page)

“Correct.” Bree let out a shaky breath. “Answer me this, sir: about my torture—did you authorize that?”

“Never. Beauchamp’s people had control of you at first. I’d gotten you out of the Raft Cities, so he felt he wanted a piece of you. It was a bit of a power play between us, but I finally convinced him to let me take over your care. Remember your hot meal the night you spoke to the guard? That was when I took charge of your treatment. Though I am fully guilty of taking advantage of your condition once I learned of it. I made sure your trial was televised so all of Central could see the poor shape you were in.”

“As the Voice of Freedom, how did you transmit . . . everywhere?”

The man shrugged. “Simply by using the technology available to me in my position as top military leader. And no,” he said, looking at Ty. “Your mother didn’t know.”

“What about the assassin?” Ty asked.

His father’s eyes darkened. “Beauchamp sent him—I knew nothing of it!”

“I worked with that soldier. Lopez was his name.” Even after all this time, Ty could hear the anguish the incident caused in his own heart.

“The lure of power and money can change men.”

“Not you, Father?”

“I am only human. I want what’s best for this country. I’ve done many things, kept many secrets, and it’s all been in the name of freedom. I am tired, Ty. I would not mind walking away from this when all is done. If that’s what the people want of me.”

Ty ran his hands through his hair as a thousand mental pictures flipped through his brain, and he took incidents
that had happened with his father and saw them in this new light.

“You had nothing to do with the prison security system failure?” Bree asked.

Armstrong shook his head. His forehead creased. “That remains a mystery. Even the president blamed me.”

“And Chico? Did you put me in touch with him intentionally?”

“Yes. Glad you picked up on that. You were always a bright boy.” His father’s eyes twinkled with subtle humor.

Chuckling, Ty let a sudden rush of emotion take hold of him. He moved forward and offered his hand to his father. Their grip was powerful, hinting at the love between them. They weren’t quite ready for more than a handshake yet, however.

“Now what, General?” Someone whom Ty recognized as a militia leader shouted. “Are your troops in on this, too?”

To Ty’s dismay, his father’s face fell. “Now’s the time for us to see. I couldn’t reveal anything of myself until I knew I could do so here. As far as they know, I’m their general, loyal to the death to the UCE.”

Ty saw Bree cast a wary glance to the army surrounding them on three sides.

“I can also say with confidence that a majority would defect if given reason to do so. The only reason the soldiers have stayed with me is out of personal loyalty.”

“Do you mean if you say the word, they’ll change sides?” Bree asked.

The general exhaled. “There are no guarantees. As peacefully as we pray this situation ends, this is, in fact, war. While, yes, I believe many of the troops will fight for
us and not Beauchamp’s UCE, there’s no guarantee any of them will in fact do so.”

“But what do you think, father?” Ty asked. “What does your gut say?”

“My gut says most are ours. And those on the fence, as soon as Beauchamp takes the reins, they will come over to our side.”

Our side
. Coming from his father, Ty thought the words had a nice ring.

The general extended his hand to Bree. “Banzai Maguire,” he said with a blend of affection and admiration, “you should stand with me, so that when the images reach the far corners of this colony, this soon-to-be new nation, they will see us together as equals.”

“I would be honored.”

Bree stepped toward him, grasped his hand, and walked with the general to the edge of the roof. A soldier in the general’s path aimed a camera at them. Touching a small handheld screen and communicating directly with his army, Armstrong said, “My brave soldiers, I order you to stand down. Stand down. A peace treaty has been negotiated here today. A peace treaty, fate willing, for all time. There are two kinds of men in the UCE: those who yearn to be free, and those who are slaves. I offer today the chance at freedom for all who desire it. For those who don’t, know this: a new nation will soon be born, retaken from our past. It will be a glorious new future, but you will not be part of it.”

He stood straighter, taking off his hat. Ty noticed that his short black hair was damp with sweat. So the Ax was not immune to nerves, after all.

Taking in a mighty breath, the general bellowed, “To
President Julius Beauchamp and his servants I say this: Central’s future is yours no more! Central is free!”

Bree let out a whoop, and spontaneous cheers broke out all over the building.

Almost immediately, Beauchamp himself answered, using the Capitol’s speaker system, which he had electronically usurped. “Mine is the legitimate government! Armstrong wants the power for himself!”

“No! We will hold free elections for our next leader. He or she will be a citizen
chosen by the people.
I know good people, worthy people, are out there. Many of them. As for me, I am happy to retire from my public life.”

The soldiers’ cheers became thunderous.

Bree left Armstrong’s side. Jostled by the celebration, she found Ty and moved into the circle of his arms. He drew her close. “When we were in the heli-jet, you said I didn’t belong to you,” she said. “You said that I belonged to the people. I don’t think that’s true anymore. I’ve done what I came here to do. I’m yours, Ty. Yours always.”

He crushed her to his chest. He didn’t even kiss her; he merely held her close in a long, tight hug, as if he never wanted to let her go.

Shouts of warning tore them apart. The lookouts’ high-powered imaging screens revealed a disturbing sight coming from the one area his father’s army didn’t occupy: the sea.

“They’re Beauchamp’s private guard,” the general said grimly. “Marines.”

Everyone on the Capitol turned to watch as the soldiers rolled ashore. More ships plowed forward behind them. They were trapped, all of the rebels, and it seemed about to be slaughtered.

“New target—at a hundred miles, sir!” one of the lookouts manning an aviation tracker shouted.

Bree’s disappointment was clearly etched on her face.

“They’re coming by air now, too,” she said wearily. So much for this day ending peacefully, without massive bloodshed. “What else could go wrong? We can’t afford any more letdowns. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, and too many likely on the verge of giving up and going home.”

“No,” the lookout said. “It’s only one. And it doesn’t have the signature of any of the warcraft I know—space or atmospheric.”

Several other Spec Ops guys joined the lookout in analyzing the new threat. Their eyes went from the aviation tracker to their handheld computers and back again. “Impossible,” one said. “It . . . can’t be.”

“Let me see.” Bree exhaled noisily and pulled herself along the scaffolding to where the men huddled around the monitor. Ty followed.

Upon seeing what so confused the men, Bree made a small sound that encapsulated disbelief, incredulity, bewilderment, and joy all at the same time. “That jet,” she told him. “It’s an American F-16!”

Eyes narrowed against the pain in her skull and neck, Cam flew a few hundred feet off the water. “Keep it level, keep it steady. . . .” She found that if she talked to herself, she could focus better. And focus was what she needed this low to the deck. She was flying so fast that a sneeze could slam her into the water. At this speed she’d be dead in an instant. There was no room for mistakes.

She raced over the seas—the Atlantic Ocean, the same waves she’d splashed through as a girl visiting the Georgia shore in summer. She was here to protect those waves now.
Waves . . . Amber waves of grain . . .
She jerked alert.

I’m hallucinating
.

She shook her head, then cursed her stupidity when agony gripped her neck, radiating into her jaw and sinuses. Backing off the throttle, she slowed down, but she kept the plane above Mach 1 because, boy, that sonic
boom would rattle a few glasses—and maybe a general or two.

As she rolled in toward shore, the final run, the scene startled her. There were far more infantry on the ground than she’d expected. And no smoke or fire, no signs of a battle under way.

“It’s the strangest sight, Kyber. Hundred of thousands of people. Everyone’s just standing around, staring each other down. Wait. There are more. Coming in by sea, troop carriers unloading what look like futuristic marines.”

“Yes. We see them on the satellite. A private force, my intelligence people say. Beauchamp’s.”

Well, she thought, she’d get down extra low in that case, and blow their socks off. She roared over the advancing marines, knowing the thunder she caused as she rent the air was deafening.

She arced in a gentler curve as she slowed, wheeling over the Capitol building, where Bree was said to be. Despite her suffering, the poignancy of seeing Washington, DC, spread out below was intense.

It almost made up for all the crap she’d had to deal with today.

Almost.

“Here it goes,” she whispered, and brought her finger to the trigger for the nanowriter. The entire plan hinged on this working.
Please.
She hit the screen icon and banked in a gentle turn, making a large circle over the Capitol.

It was painful to do, but she craned her neck to see what she’d painted in the sky. The sight took her breath away. The montage of images showed reenactments from
American pre-Revolutionary history, mixed with scenes from the centuries before the UCE. The Interweb was down—Kyber had told her that—so Cam could only imagine, and hope, that images of world leaders declaring their support of the revolt in Central had a tremendous impact on those on the ground.

“There is troop movement,” she shouted into the radio. “I see soldiers running.” Running toward the Capitol and Bree, she realized, her heart pounding. But even from a thousand feet in the air, she knew they were deserting their UCE masters, not attacking. “It’s begun,” she murmured. “It’s truly begun.”

Yes. Grinning, Cam rolled over on a wing, intending to take a victory spin around the Capitol, when her weapons warning system went crazy.
Nee-nee-nee-nee-neenee.
This was no measly radar warning. The alarm said it all: Beauchamp’s marines had lobbed a missile.

Except, not at her. It was streaking through the air from the sea and headed straight for Bree’s position.

Using the Han Empire’s air-to-air add-on, Cam blew it out of the sky. It went up in a harmless but beautiful bloom, illuminating all of Washington.

“Incoming!” someone shouted.

Ash and bits of the blown-apart missile rained down on the Capitol. It gave a whole new meaning to
rockets’ red glare
and
bombs bursting in air.

“Fireworks,” Bree told Ty. “You said you always wanted to see them.”

Above, the F-16 veered back to sea. Except for missile defense, it seemed to have no real weapons. Whoever it was had truly come in peace and at the risk of their life.

From the top of the Capitol, Ty and Bree had a birdseye view of the miraculous sky show. “Prince Kyber,” she said, watching the nanowriting. “He’s offering his support to us. And the leader of the Euro-African Consortium. Ty, this is what we needed. This will make the difference!”

“And so will that pilot,” the general said, appearing behind them. “We’ve detected the evidence of defections from Beauchamp’s guard. I don’t think the ‘Star-spangled Banner’ persuaded them, but seeing world leaders on the other side certainly has. A brilliant move, that.”

The F-16 roared overhead, wings rocking, as if the pilot were giddy with the heady pleasure of flying, and Bree would have given her eyeteeth to be in that cockpit. But she was needed here, standing amongst the militia as their symbol of freedom.

“Hmm. Could that pilot be your missing wingmate, Cameron Tucker?” Armstrong asked. “If it is, she’s come at a good time.”

Ice cascaded from Bree’s head to her heart, followed by a hot hope. “It has to be,” she whispered, the realization sinking in. “This has the markings of Cam all over it.”

Beauchamp’s marines were breaking ranks, and thousands of defecting UCE soldiers took up defensive positions around the Capitol. They could see Armstrong, and responded by cheering when he greeted them with a salute.

Another missile arced into the sky, this one aimed at the F-16. Who was ordering the attacks? It must be Beauchamp himself. Immediately, the jet went into evasive maneuvers, launching countermeasures and racing across the sky.

“Shake it, Cam. Shake it off.” Bree brought her fists out in front of her, as if she were the one flying. It looked as if the missile would explode harmlessly over the ocean: more evidence that Cam was flying. Whoever was at the controls of that jet was a fantastic pilot.

But not so lucky today, it seemed. The futuristic missile came around for another go. The antiquated jet had fooled it once, but it wouldn’t happen twice. Everyone on the Capitol roof sucked in a collective breath as the missile clipped its target.

Trailing dark smoke, the F-16 banked. Bree’s fists came together. “Get out, get out,” she said under her breath. This low, Cam couldn’t waste time deciding whether to bail out. She had to do it now.

Live to fight another day,
Bree prayed. And she was rewarded. The F-16 turned until it faced the ocean, and the pilot ejected. The seat rocketed out and the burning, pilotless fighter flew on, gradually losing altitude before it crashed harmlessly into the sea.

“There he is!” The crowd on the roof pointed at the pilot, who was coming down fast. The wind was carrying the parachuting figure toward the Capitol. Bree had a flashback to the terrible day she’d watched Cam get shot out of the sky over North Korea. She’d never forget the sight of those long dangling legs.

They were the same legs she saw now.

Holy Christmas
, it
was
her. It was Cam!