Page 2 of First
I’ve been wondering when that name would come up.
“And as for how they made it past the retinal scans, Gabe, as an expert in military strategy,” Ivar says drily, “I think this may have something to do with it.” He bends to pick something up, then lifts his arm, showing something amorphous and red-smeared.
Bastian gags in revulsion. Martia’s muttered “fuck” echoes through the room. That’s when I realize that Ivar is fisting a clump of light-brown curls, still attached to a head. A gaping-mouthed, severed head. Open-eyed, too, because the lids have been ripped off. Yet a quick glance around the room tells me that none of the bodies have been decapitated.
“Who the fuck…?” I step closer to the head. The incision starts at the base of the throat—a clean, almost-surgical job, fresh enough that bloating and decomposition have yet to set in and the features remain recognizable.
And Idorecognize them. They belong to a young Beta soldier assigned to guarding the entrance to the tactical wing. In the three years since I first became general of the northernmost stronghold, I have walked past him hundreds of times. If I ever knew his name, I no longer recall it. I do, however, remember that his rank-insignia ceremony happened just a few weeks ago. Both his parents were present, and they were so proud of him for becoming a member of the engineering army, they were weepy through the whole service.
A couple of hours from now, someone will show up to their quarters to inform them that their son is dead.
I close my eyes. Take a deep inhale, trying to stave off the anger. When it sweeps me anyway, I take a step closer to Ivar and take it out on him. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Two weeks ago, after they sabotaged the shields and four engineers were killed trying to patch them up, I told you that if we didn’t act soon, something like this would happen?—”
“And I stand by everything I said back then, Gabriel.” Ivar’s eyes hold mine steadily. My older brother is my right hand. The most brilliant mind out of the tens of thousands of people who seek refuge from the elements in this stronghold. It’s thanks only to his strategies that common-born organizations like the military—and I, as its general—currently hold more political power than ever in recent memory.
At the moment, though, I don’t give a fuck. “Seven attacks, Ivar. And that’s only from the start of the year. At least two dozen victims. Two weeks ago, I petitioned the council to bring House Larsen to justice?—”
“And I told you not to, because I know how the council thinks. They will never side with the military over the high-born, not unless we have incontrovertible evidence that House Larsen is behind these illegal strikes. If we overplay our hand and act without solid proof, all noble houses will see it as overreach and rally behind Lord Larsen?—”
Before my brother can finish his speech, I pin him to the wall and unsheathe the dagger at my hip, pressing it to his throat. The outburst immediately brightens my mood. Ivar might hate violence, but sometimes it’s just what a situation needs.Typical Alpha, he’d say. And he’d be right.
“Gabriel, I’m simply telling you?—”
“I know. Please, continuetellingme why I have to let these bastards come intomyhome, killmypeople?—”
“Gabriel,” Martia says, wrapping a hand around my shoulder. “Ivar is right. None of this is his fault.”
I ignore her, because I’m not done. “During the last Low Tide, they were directly responsible for the death of seven of my best mechanics, some of whom had been doing their job for longer than I’ve been alive, and one of them was our uncle.”
“General Agard.”Martia’s switch to my title is a very unsubtle reminder that my days of dealing with issues however the hell I please are over. I’m no longer a recruit who enlisted because the military was the only way to prevent my family’s starvation. I run the fucking thing now. “Can you be reasonable for a goddamn second?”
“Not exactly what I’m known for,” I say, eyes on Ivar. But he is remarkably unconcerned for someone who’s a single deep breath from a slit throat. I take a step back from him and return my dagger to its sheath, just in time for the automatic doors to slide open. A dozen soldiers barge into the room, ready to protect us from an attack that was over about five minutes ago.
“Better late than never,” I bark, exchanging an eye-roll with my brother.
Excuses and apologies are offered by one of the commanders, followed by a detailed account of the victims killed by the attackers before they reached the operations suite. While Martia deals with them and oversees the removal of the bodies, I take a few steps to the side and inhale deep breaths, trying to subdue the roar in my ears—the one that snarls at me to clutch the hilt of my sword and go to House Larsen’s headquarters and run my blade through each loathsome member. Instead, I lay my palm against one of the west-facing portholes, letting the cool carbo-glass ground me.
The windows are as tall as two men, thick-framed and imposing. During Lows, sunlight streams through them and across the raw stone and steel of the stronghold’s floors. But the tide rose weeks ago and has lingered several feet above the highest cliff in the Northern Lands ever since. All that can be seen beyond the glass are the fish swimming by, disturbing the hazy blue patterns filtering inside, casting shadows over my bloodstained round table.
We haven’t seen the sun in nearly two months. The lamps embedded in the wall’s recesses provide the illumination we need, but the artificial light radiating from them is dim and makes my skin itch. When I was a child, a High this long was unheard of. Now it’s the norm.
And that is why commoners like me finally have a seat at the table. When every human life is at the mercy of the tides, power is the means to protect oneself and one’s own. In the Northern Lands, safety can only be found within the stronghold. It has flood-proof structures sealing the stone from the ingress of salt water and its corrosion: watertight gates and small domes, prediction instrumentation, deluge detection, air filtration, and energy storage apparatuses. The engineering soldiers of the military are the only ones who can guarantee the integrity and upkeep of these systems. We are all that stands between humans of the north and certain death, and our political rise is warranted.
The noble houses, however, are having trouble coming to terms with that. Their riches may be centuries old, but as the sea becomes more hostile, their financial power will continue to ebb.
When I became general, my first request to the Council of Elders was simple: to tax the Houses and use a reasonable portion of their wealth to fund the upkeep and renovations of the stronghold. The council refused me—unsurprising, considering that most of its members are noble-born. I was ready to take what my military engineers needed by force, but Ivar suggested we bide our time, and he was right. Months later, following a steep infrastructure decline, discontent among the commoners was at its peak. When we re-proposed our tax reform, the council had no choice but to do as we asked.
That’s when the Houses realized that their loss of relevance was unavoidable. Their responses ranged from reluctant acceptance to open animosity, but one by one, they had to acknowledge that the military was their only hope for survival, and eventually, they all submitted to the council’s decision and began cooperating with us.
All except for the oldest and most prosperous: House Larsen.
They know, just as well as I do, that what’s at stake is the future of the stronghold. What they want is to be in charge and not cede even an ounce of their privilege. WhatIwant is to create a place where commoners have the same rights as the aristocracy. Their attempts at sabotaging me and my people to maintain the status quo have been brazen, but I’ve followed my brother’s advice and exercised restraint—not exactly my most shining quality. I told myself that Ivar knows how to exploit a situation to achieve the optimal outcome. His goal, like mine, is to reduce resource inequality within the population and to put a stop to centuries of unchecked greed. He once again told me to bide my time, and I once again agreed.
But I’m all out of fucking patience.
I turn away from the windows to find that the bodies have been dragged away. Feeling more grounded, I join Martia, Bastien, and Ivar at the table.
“All this blood will be a bitch to clean up,” Bastian says archly.
