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wind howled softly, but Liz was at least glad that the pilot had chosen to hover as opposed to dropping her while in motion.
    “Gavin,” Liz said, hating the waver in her voice. “Whatever your opinions about me, I’m begging you to find another way into those cities. All those people…”
    “That is no longer your concern,” Gavin replied. “Your only concern now is inserting yourself into Silent Thunder as if you were one of them. We will contact you when the time comes.”
    The guard pushed her toward the door, and she put her hands out to prevent him from pitching her into the night.
    “You’re right, it isn’t my concern. But it is yours. You should consider what the weight of all those lives will do to your soul.”
    “The die is cast, my dear, and nothing you say can alter it. The strikes have already begun.” The general nodded once more to the guard.
    One hard shove later she was flailing in utter darkness.



4
    T HE H IGH C OUNCIL CONVENED at the Table of Nine, a name that rankled Emperor Sullivan every time he heard it. Originally there were only eight members of the High Council, but the Citadel had managed to write a clause into the Conglomerate’s constitution for one of its representatives to sit in on their meetings despite his repeated attempts to keep them out. His supposed allies on the Council had even encouraged their inclusion, along with undermining his efforts to maintain control over the growing rabble in his government.
    It had been this way once before, before the fall of the Old World, when the threat of Persia loomed large before the eyes of the United States Senate. It was a golden age brought on by the discovery of Solithium, and no one wanted to hear talk of war. Their pockets lined with gold, the senators and their constituents had become pacifists of convenience. But the Persians did not play fair, and by the time the United States stopped arguing over what to do about them it was much too late.
    He had vowed never to allow such a travesty to pass on his watch again.
    That was the excuse he used to scowl at the Citadel member from across the table, where he sat conversing with the two men who seemed to be helping to chip away the High Council’s power: Councilor Christopher Holt and Councilor Luke Orion. Sullivan wasn’t sure he even knew the member’s name—aside from that it sounded German in origin. He turned his scowl from the unknown nuisance to Orion, formerly his own Chief of Staff. Once he had been able to rely on the man for anything; now he couldn’t say which way he would vote. Holt’s behavior over the past year was even more bothersome. He had an agenda, one that would have had him executed for treason if not for his friendship with Sullivan. In many ways that friendship made what Sullivan had to do much more difficult, but he summoned his anger with the reminder that Holt had betrayed him first. They were supposed to have been in this together, but the man had turned his back in favor of a misguided hunger for redemption.
    My list of allies grows thin , he mused. I wonder if this is how it went for Alexander, once the fervor of the System’s founding wore off and people realized what they had gotten themselves into. Sullivan had been close enough to observe the MWR’s transformation from noble hero to oppressive tyrant. It hadn’t happened overnight, but there had been warning signs all along the way.
    Am I seeing those signs now? Is it time to turn back?
    He steeled himself as the last of the High Council were seated around the Table. No . There is no going back now. It’s win or die, and sacrifices must be made .
    “Good evening, Councilors,” he began. “As you no doubt have heard, Rio has fallen to the Imperial Guard. Some work remains to fortify the city against an attempt by the Great Army to retake it, but for all intents and purposes we now control Division Seventeen. We should be able to move against Lima and Division Sixteen before the week