Glory Main by Henry V. O'Neil Page A

able to cover the bridge even though the gun’s range was far too short for that.
    Mortas was disappointed not to see the others coming right away, but then reconsidered. They would wait a while to make sure the walking guard wasn’t coming back, and then make their move. Ruminating on that, he now saw what a flimsy plan they’d devised. How many times had the walking guard disappeared and then returned while he’d been crossing under the bridge? What if the Sim had decided to take a break of his own, on this side of the water and out of sight, before Mortas had gotten into position? Cranther might have been running down the length of the bridge toward the seated guard at its center just as the walking guard reappeared.
    To make matters worse, Mortas now saw another wrinkle that they hadn’t addressed. If the mover came back in the next few minutes, what was he going to do? Fire at it with this unfamiliar weapon? Do nothing, and watch the others come hustling over the bridge right into the enemy’s arms? The ramifications were made all the more frightening by what he’d just seen and done, and Mortas shuddered at the very thought.
    He looked down the road in the direction the mover had gone, but the darkness closed in only a short distance out. There was no way to tell if he’d be able to see the approaching headlights far off, or if they’d be right on top of him. The mover’s engine had been nearly silent from across the river, but hopefully it would make more noise at close range. He tried to listen, but only heard the rustling of the water and began to wish very strongly for the sound of three sets of boots crossing the bridge.
    The adrenaline was wearing off, as was the shock of having killed for the first time, and a heavy lethargy began spreading across his limbs and his mind. He’d done what the others had needed him to do, the hard part for him was over, and if Cranther would just get a move on, they could get away from this cursed place. The image of the four of them walking up the next ridge seemed very peaceful, and he yawned as he considered it.
    It would be so nice to be back out in the boondocks, away from everything. Away from here . . .
    H e came to rest in the room where he’d lived as an upperclassman at his prep school. A top-­floor round tower, bigger than the other rooms with curved windows looking out on an ancient chestnut tree and the rolling fields of the school. A worn rug in the center of the room, beds, bookcases, and desks, and even a blocked-­up fireplace where he and his roommate had liked to hide various contraband items.
    It was night outside, and Mortas recognized the scene even though somewhere in his subconscious he knew he was dreaming. It was the night they’d announced that his father had been elevated to Chairman of the Emergency Senate, and he’d left the dining hall early to avoid the well-­wishers. A dark-­haired boy, a recent transfer named Emile Dassa, had followed him even though they didn’t know each other. Mortas had feared it was yet another attempt to congratulate him, but he’d been wrong.
    So far the dream was the same as the reality, or at least his sleeping brain said it was. Emile’s hair hung past his ears, unusual for the school, and his dark eyes had blazed with something close to fanaticism.
    â€œYour dad finally made the leap to the very top. Only took murdering the president, his entire cabinet, and a few dozen Force officers, too . . . unless you count everybody who’s died in the war since then.”
    He’d felt an urge to throw the smaller boy out, perhaps even toss him down the stairs, but an old curiosity had prevented him from doing that. “What would you know about it? I was ten when that happened, so what would you have been? Eight?”
    â€œDid Daddy tell you what he told everybody else? That the president and his crowd had to die because they