Chapter 11
Turns out, war planning is almost the most boring thing in the whole world.
It does not differ greatly from Papa’s meetings with his subregion leaders, where people vie to be heard and no one listens to each other.
Taylor sits at the head of the table, demeanor calm.
To her left is Mason, off and on rolling his eyes at the antics of these zealous Order generals.
To her right is Delilah, corralling everyone’s loud opinions.
I am seated to Delilah’s right, next to another Order member not familiar to me but hopefully not actively seeking to capture me for twelve million dollars.
“We don’t have the soldiers!”
“We have enough. One of us is worth ten of them.”
“Forget Detroit—we need Chicago!”
It’s a mess, so I tune out. Our meeting room is a library, books lined floor to ceiling inside wooden shelves.
Green velvet chairs are tucked into cozy corners, next to twentieth-century lamps and side tables.
Behind us, bay windows gleam in between wood-paneled walls, looking out onto a misty training field.
An unrelenting odor of sweat and carpet cleaner fill my nostrils, but every so often the nostalgic aroma of books permeates the stale air.
When I tune back in, a woman from Illinois is shouting at a man from Ohio. Taylor stands from her seat and raises her hand. Despite being probably about thirty years younger than the mean age of those around her, the room grows quiet.
“Theia and I understand your concerns. Our manpower is not what it could be with our efforts in the Southeast being stalled by local militia.”
“You mean those goddamn militants,” a man says.
“I meant what I said, thank you. The most current intelligence suggests Nathan Dunn is shaping up to be the leader of the Dusters in the wake of Thorne’s death.”
Taylor places her watch on the table and uses it to create a three-dimensional hologram of the city of Detroit that hovers above the table.
“He was Thorne’s highest in command and, allegedly, the architect behind many of Thorne’s merciless laws.
Resistance will be powerful and ruthless.
As such, neither Theia nor myself believe we have an adequate number of soldiers to take this city by typical means.
So, our solution is this: we will bomb the warehouse district that currently houses a significant number of Dusters, as well as one of their major weapon caches.
With their troops dwindled and supplies disrupted, we will be in a better position to negotiate with Dunn to surrender.
This scales down our engagement here, and frees Order soldiers for deployments to your cities. ”
The green holograph zooms in on the district, and the buildings turn dark red. A ring in a lighter shade of red encircles the debris, indicating collateral damage. Silence hangs heavy. Shock is plain on some, contemplation on others.
Delilah grips her pen and speaks quietly. “Those warehouses buttress the residences of many Underclass factory workers.”
Taylor faces her, solemn. “We know. The explosions should only level the buildings, but there is no guarantee the close proximity residences won’t be affected.
Ideally, we would discreetly evacuate any citizens before the bombing.
It may prove problematic, as our scouts report citizens are being impressed upon to quarter Dunn’s soldiers. ”
“Bomb how? We can’t fly no planes,” an older man rumbles from his seat.
He’s got a regal mane of curly gray hair flowing past his thick neck.
Rosy red cheeks and a lustrous beard and mustache combo give him the appearance of a grizzled Santa Claus, with piercing black eyes like my father.
“We waited months for Theia’s orders and all she came up with was slash and burn? ”
“It is hardly slash and burn,” Taylor replies with an air of condescension. It isn’t Taylor’s voice—low, raspy, and warm. It’s her Eos voice—detached and robotic, confident. “Fifteen warehouses, controlled explosions. I project only five or six other buildings will suffer as a result.”
“Five or six buildings with hundreds of people in each.” Santa’s cheeks redden as he stands from his seat to address the rest of the group. “Like I said before, we should launch a five-prong assault. If we come between the main streets, like spokes toward the hub of a wheel, we cut them off.”
“It is too risky,” Taylor interjects. “The most generous estimates put us outnumbered six to one. Dunn cannot know this, so we must limit his interactions with our troops.”
“This plan is suicide,” he says, rising from his seat in dramatic fashion.
Taylor shrugs. “For me, perhaps.”
Santa gruffly slams his fist down. “And who are you? Theia sends a child with no experience to lead us. We’re the ones with experience! We’ve been in the trenches for decades.”
“Trenches for decades,” I sneer from my seat. “Sitting on your hands for thirty years hardly counts as experience.”
“Oh, and now I take lip from traitor spawn?” Santa sneers back at me. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Then sit down.” Taylor seeps a bit of the aggression she used on Thorne into her voice. Santa does, in fact, sit down. Primly tenting her fingers on the table, she leans forward. “Captain Leka, I have heard your concerns—”
He balks. “But you haven’t goddamn listened to them!”
“—But it is my duty, as well as yours, to follow the orders given by our leader. If you wish to object further, you are welcome to contact Theia directly. End of discussion.”
A woman across the table speaks up. “We use bombs and we let every Duster know exactly where we are.”
“We let them know where I am,” Taylor corrects. “You are correct that we cannot use planes, not until we’ve liberated the anti-aircraft stations. Myself and three other soldiers will arm and detonate the bombs. The others will be instructed to position well outside the blast radii.”
“What are the odds you’re successful?” I ask softly.
Taylor glances at me. “Seventy-five percent.”
Another woman interjects. “Any misstep could be catastrophic. The Order hasn’t got the best track record with explosions.”
“Theia is aware of that,” Taylor says.
“Is she?” Another woman leans back in her chair. “Theia’s drilled into our heads that we are not to use explosives in civilian areas—not since what happened twenty years ago.”
I look around at their grim faces. “What happened twenty years ago?”
Taylor lowers her voice. “I will tell you later.”
“No, I think we oughtta tell her now,” Captain Santa cuts in. “She almost became a region leader that day.”
“Soldiers for OrPro went against orders and tried to blow up a region leader meeting,” Taylor sums up with intentionally little fanfare. “Someone tipped off the region leaders and they escaped, but several blocks were destroyed and hundreds of lives lost, including important members of the Order.”
“Oh.”
That’s why they don’t hold those meetings anymore. I was small, but I remember my home being filled with puffy-white-suited people floating around like balloons, tethered to bomb-sniffing dogs.
“However, this is not the same,” Taylor says with a fierce stare. “These are official orders.”
An older man speaks in solemn tones. “It’s an awful lot of destruction.”
Delilah has been quiet through this, and when I look over at her, she appears grave. “I will not question your ability, but, on behalf of my city and my region, I do have to ask if you are certain this is the best way.”
Taylor, not Eos, returns when she pivots to Delilah. “It is not ideal, I admit, but it will minimize casualties. That is the best I can do.”
Delilah’s brow remains worried, but she nods. “Then you have my support.”
I lean into Delilah and gesture to the door, where a soldier does an antsy back-and-forth with serving trays. “Maybe we should give her a break.”
“Yes.” Delilah addresses the room. “Let us adjourn for lunch and the lieutenant general will take questions.”
Taylor sinks into her seat, deflating. I mosey over to a window and peer out into the vast backyard.
A man jogs around a track under the watchful eye of a soldier with a gun.
The soldier running the track slows to a stop, his hands on his knees, panting in exhaustion.
Behind him, his supervisor shouts and shoves him in the back with a gun.
If it was intended to motivate, it doesn’t, and the runner falls to his knees and throws up.
“What did that kid do?” I ask Taylor, who silently arrived at my side.
Taylor gazes into the hazy gray day. “Private Kirkman approached me about joining us in the field, but he’s too young to fight. I told him to straighten out this wayward recruit.”
“You know I meant the guy throwing his guts up.”
She leans against the window frame and crosses her arms. “Another soldier reported him for insubordination.”
“Seems excessive.” The kid throwing up gets kicked in the side.
“I do not tolerate disrespect within the ranks. It is petty and embarrassing. For what we have planned, I cannot use soldiers with personal vendettas or chips on their shoulders.” Reasonable enough, I suppose.
The soldier helps the recruit up off the ground and pats him on the back, leading him back into the building. “Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, my contributions were legendary.”
Taylor chuckles. “It is nice to know someone has my back. Like you, Mason, and Delilah. This was supposed to be Hunter’s position, and without her—it’s hard. She knows how to deal with these people and all their incessant questions,” she says. “Why do people talk so much when they could be quiet?”
We look into the room as plates of food are brought to the resistance leaders. The vibe is more relaxed, and hopefully after everyone has eaten, plans can be hammered out without coming to blows.