Martha scurried in, setting a tray of iced tea beside his chair. “Wonderful to see you, my lord,” she beamed and disappeared.
“Roderic?”
He heard Lord Calder’s voice from the top of the staircase and stood, brushing a kiss to Marenne’s cheek. “Run along. I’ll come visit the family shortly.” Being the dutiful daughter she was, Marenne slipped out quietly, her smile remaining glued to his heart.
“Yes, my Lord, I’m here.” Roderic didn’t have the strength to climb stairs. A lump formed in his throat. How would his father react? Their plans, laid to ruin. An enemy breathing down their necks. Aware of his sorry state, his lack of hygiene, his return in defeat, a growing dread threatened like storm clouds.
Lord Thorne Calder crossed the room at a gentle pace, shoulders squared, chin high. His hair was snowy white, but his russet eyes still cut sharp as a sabre. He stopped in front of Roderic, expression unreadable. Then he opened his arms and drew him into a fierce embrace.
Home.
Roderic blinked back tears as he hugged his father like he had long ago as a child. Memories stacked one atop the other, as if his whole life whizzed by in a moment—the good, the bad, the unforgettable.
When his father released him, Roderic took a step back, studying the old man’s face. “I must admit,” Thorne said quietly, “Frost surprised me. I received a letter filled with assurances, but I dared not hope, assuming it was mere rhetoric. She could have punished me by leaving you to rot.”
“She came through.” Roderic gazed fondly at a man he’d often quarreled with while ever craving his approval. “You’ve always been too critical of the queen. I don’t envy her position now. It’s time for us to band together and save our country.”
A hard line pressed between Thorne’s lips, his brows furrowing. “She should have made the military a higher priority from the beginning, as I advised. If only Aren hadn’t taken ill. What good are fields of golden grain and fat herds if we lack the strength to defend them?”
Roderic lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Father—sorry that I failed to turn back the invaders. It was a good plan. It might have worked if—”
“No, son,” Thorne declared, his expression softening. “You brought half your men home. That is not failure. My reports say you took three of theirs for every one of ours lost.”
“True.” Roderic met his father’s gaze. “I was with Uncle Dex when he passed. Pickering stood. We shall honor him when … Over thirty thousand Republic troops march on Stonevale.”
“Sit, drink your tea,” Thorne instructed, taking a seat.
Roderic sank back into his chair and drank, soothing his coarse throat. “I need to let June and the kids know I’m home.”
“You need a bath.” The lord’s rust-brown eyes sparkled as a humorous smile inched across his face. “You smell worse than a hog wallow.”
For the first time in ages, Roderic laughed, truly laughed. The tears he’d held back finally fell. They would devise a strategy. He would eat something and sleep in clean sheets in his wife’s arms. Tomorrow, they would face the inevitable.
“By Honor, We Rise,” he said aloud, repeating the Calder family motto. He raised his glass in silent salute and swallowed the cool liquid. He had done his best. Tomorrow, he would do it again.
Chapter twenty-five
Protocol Drift
Appalachia, 60 km southwest of Clover Hollow, same day
“Push a new target discrimination model,” instructed Adélard Delacroix as he gazed at the ranks of robot soldiers he’d helped design. He’d been in the field for two days, testing them in the sun, rain, and over various terrains. Thus far, they’d performed within acceptable parameters, avoiding collisions and response latency. The next phase was vital: could they eliminate hostile-coded targets without civilian bleed?
Adélard’s fossil-gray Nehru jacket, buttoned over a crisp, white shirt, remained free of dirt, his matching cadet-style brimmed cap shading his pale skin. He pushed buttons on the military-grade portable command terminal resting on the field table before him.
“Yes, Minister Delacroix,” answered Dr. Paval Halberg, his senior engineering tech and the only man in the field who understood the hardware as thoroughly as he did. Adélard was pleased to work with the experienced professional in his fifties. He was a steady fellow who didn’t lose his head when others panicked. “Shall we try a mixed-target environment with military and civilian decoys?”
“That would be preferable. Captain Hahn, can your team help set them up? They’re in the supply truck.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain pivoted and gave his squad a hand signal. They moved in unison, stormy sage uniforms peeking from beneath matte graphite body armor. Each wore a matching helmet with a retractable, full-face, opaque visor and black boots.
As they positioned life-size dummies—some with weapons and others holding flowers or baskets of bread—Adélard’s systems assistant cringed beside him. Rounded blue eyes peered at him questioningly.
“You’re including child targets as well?” Nerves radiated off Anya Martel, the thirty-two-year-old in a navy pantsuit, clinging to a clipboard. She pushed up her glasses, her brown bob conspicuously missing a hat.
“Ethical thresholds,” he replied. “They should be able to avoid hitting children while taking out enemy soldiers.”
Dr. Halberg tapped away on his tablet, setting the proper parameters for the drill. “Which squad shall we test first?” With a thousand robots and only a few dozen targets, they couldn’t have them all fire at once.