by Jack Conner
He raised his glass. “To the Ascendance.”
She clinked it. “The Ascendance.”
They drank.
His bulging green eyes stared at her. His mustache twitched. His face flushed. “Eliza, you know how fond I am of you.”
“As I am of you, Commander. I find you quite a good friend.”
“Friend is so limiting. Why limit yourself to a narrow field of pleasure when you can increase it . . . exponentially.” He smiled, and it was a greedy, sweaty smile.
Her hand tightened on her glass. “I would not want to ruin our friendship.”
He had sat his pip down in the ash tray, and a meaty hand slapped her thigh just above her knee. She flinched. His thick, warm fingers began caressing her through the thin cotton of her black pants.
“Commander . . . “
“Eliza . . .” His voice was thick.
His hand worked upwards, upwards. She could feel his fingers digging into her, feel the rough groove of his fingerprints, feel the heat of him. Feel his hunger. His hand worked above the knee, then well above the knee, pressing deep into the meat of her mid-thigh. Her hand tightened about her glass so much that she feared it would break. She wanted to smash it over his face.
At last she could take no more and jumped her feet. “Commander!”
He laughed. “Oh sweet Eliza, how we will get to know each other. I have looked forward to this for a long time.”
She backed away. “I’m leaving.”
He clapped his hands. One of the partitions was torn away. Behind it Dr. Jung slumped in a chair. He had been tightly strapped to it, and a gag filled his mouth. He shook and wept, and he had been beaten savagely. Blood formed a puddle beneath his chair, and his wasted, ghoul-like body was raw as fresh meat and covered in open sores and bruises. One of his eyes had been gouged out, but the other stared at her imploringly, as if begging forgiveness.
Two troopers stood over him. One ripped the gag off.
“Eliza . . “ Dr. Jung moaned. “I . . . I’m so sorry . . . I tried to send off a message, but . . . but I grew . . . confused . . .”
No no no. In his drunkenness he had gotten caught. Eliza mashed her eyes shut and staggered backward. When she opened them Commander Higgins was striding towards her.
“I’ll talk,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything.” She would make up whatever lie they wanted to hear.
He made a motion with his hand, and a knife glinted in his fat fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”
***
She bolted.
The troopers guarding the door caught her. With help from the others, they tied her down to a chair and dragged her into the canvas-walled room that Dr. Jung occupied. She was made to face him while one of the troopers turned on a record-player. The sounds of a German opera rang throughout the tent.
I didn’t know Higgins was so dramatic, Eliza thought.
“Louder,” Commander Higgins said.
They turned it louder.
He loomed over her, and again Eliza could smell him. “Is there anyone else involved?” he asked. “Anyone in the Society?”
“No. I’m the only one.”
He punched her in the jaw with his left hand. Her head rang and her chair toppled backwards. Troopers caught it. Blackness and stars spun before her.
“Are you the only one?”
She shook her head. The stars faded. She breathed rapidly, letting her breasts rise and fall. She squirmed in her bonds, letting the ropes work against her, letting it cut across her flesh, fondle her as a man’s hands might fondle her. She continued until Higgins’s eyes took on a different gleam.
“There might be . . . others,” she said. “But I will bite off my tongue and bleed to death before I tell you, especially if I am to be . . . “ She glanced across at Dr. Jung, who had fallen unconscious. He was a ragged ruin of a once-great man. She hardened her heart to the sight. “I will not be tortured.” She stuck out her tongue and pinned its root between her teeth.
“No!” Higgins cried.
He dropped the knife and seized her jaws with his hands. He pried them open. After she withdrew her tongue, he released her and she snapped her jaws closed. He breathed heavily.
“You can’t answer questions with your jaws pried apart,” he said. “Very well. What do you propose?”
“You and your men are the only ones that know of my . . . allegiance, correct?” When he nodded, she said, “I wish to be given back my old position.”
“You’re mad! You’re a traitor.”
“I am no traitor. Technically, you are. However, before you apprehended him, Dr. Jung convinced me of the futility of my cause. The Ascendance is inevitable. I see that now. And I would rather be on the winning side than the losing.”
“Sensible, and true, but I don’t believe you.”
“I bear no love for either government or ideology, but victory -- now that’s different. If I had my way, I would prefer Casveigh to remain independent and free, if only because it is my home, but I know that cannot happen, Germany’s victory is inescapable, and since it makes no difference in the big picture, I would just assume live, and, if possible, profit.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“I will tell you who the other spies are -- after you release me -- in a public place. I will not be treated like a common prisoner.” There were of course no other spies. She and Dr. Jung were it, but it was better to have some leverage, and she delighted in making Higgins sweat.
He studied her closely. “How can I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You’ll know when the other spies, whose names I’ll give you, confess.”
He paused, and nodded slowly. “It makes sense, I suppose.” He looked to his men, then to her, then back to them. “Leave us,” he said. With them gone, Higgins leered down at her. “I’ll agree to your conditions, but only if you agree to one of my own.”
“Oh?” She pretended to be curious.
He reached a hand forward and squeezed one of her breasts. She felt like she was being pawed by a bear. “I want you. And not just once, but anytime. And anything. If you ever refuse anything I ask, I will give you the full treatment, what Jung had, and I’ll pry your jaws open so you can’t do shit. At that point I won’t care what you have to say. And, it goes without saying, if I ever get an inkling that you’re up to your old tricks, you’ll be right back in this chair, and that’s if I don’t slit your throat immediately.”
“Agreed.”
He smiled lecherously and bent to untie her ropes. “Remember, my dear, my men are right outside. I might let them take a turn on you when I’m done if you displease me.”
The last rope fell away. He grabbed her arm and hauled her out of her chair. “My bedroom’s this way -- ”
She smashed her heel down with all her strength on the bridge of his right foot. He doubled over and started to scream, but she shoved a fist into his mouth. The German opera still rang in the background. He stumbled backward, but she stuck a leg behind his ankles. He tripped, fell right across Dr. Jung, toppling the doctor, and both hit the floor. Eliza kicked Higgins in the solar plexus -- once -- twice --- thrice. He gasped wretchedly, still trying to scream but unable to. Weak fingers scratched at her boots, trying to grab hold of her, but she was too fast and he was too feeble. She knelt over him, stripped him of his gun belt, put it around herself. It held his pistol, his knife, and a set of keys.
“Which one opens Black Sector?” She shook the keys in front of him.
“Go to hell, bitch. I’ll -- ”
She drew her foot back to kick him full in the face. She still wore her high black boots.
“That one!” he gasped, before she could deliver the blow. “That one!”
She kicked him. Felt something break. He sagged. She stuffed the keys away and removed the knife. For a moment she held it to the lamp-light, stared at its sharp, steely length. She took a deep breath, crouched over and slit Commander Higgins�
��s throat. She backed away as a torrent of blood gushed out. His body twitched and began to still.
Dr. Jung gasped something. She looked over to see that he had roused, or was at least half-conscious. “Eliza . . . you made it . . .” She knelt over him and slashed at the ropes that held him. “Don’t bother. I can’t run. They. . . hamstrung me, among . . . other things.” As he spoke, blood bubbled on his lips.
“Doctor, what can I do?”
He sucked in a deep, rattling breath. “Do for me what you did the Commander, may he roast in hell.”
“I can’t kill you, Jacob.”
“If I live, they’ll only torture me more. Before you came, they were about to nail my scrotum to the chair, one testicle at a time.” She had freed him, but he could not stand. He lay on his back, bleeding into the earthen floor. He stared up at her wretchedly. “I’m so sorry . . .” He held her hands and guided the knife tip to below his ribs. “Thrust under my ribs. Find the heart. Either that or if you think you’re strong enough stuck me through my temple, where the skull is eggshell thin. I don’t want to go the way of Higgins. That did not look quick.”
“You’re sure?”
“Do it now.”
“Goodbye, Doctor.”
She thrust, fast and hard, her hand actually passing into the doctor’s body. She cringed at his moistness, his heat, her knuckles scraping the underside of his ribcage -- then the resistance as the knife struck the hard muscle of the heart. She shoved. The blade plunged in. Dr. Jung seized up, shuddered, and went limp. Shaking, she jerked her hand free, and the suction of the wound yanked at her.
She crawled into a corner and threw up.
After cleaning both the blade and her bloody right hand she ducked under the bottom of the tent wall and slipped away.
Soon she heard cries behind her. Higgins’s guards had checked on their master, perhaps alerted by the smell of released bowels. They called her name as they hunted her through the Encampment. She ducked down one canvas alley, then another. Her heart beat fast. The troopers’ cries grew louder. Closer.
She plunged into Sector One. Several workers stared at her, and she realized she must look disheveled, with a red mark on her jaw, possibly even spatters of blood.
Cables and wires snaked everywhere. She made for a particular junction.
“There!” a voice cried. “Right there!”
She did not look back. She reached the junction, pulled out two wires. Sparks flashed, and immediately all lights in Sector One shut off, drowning the chamber in shadow. Shouts of alarm rose all around. A backup generator hummed, and a few muted lights flickered on.
Eliza picked her way toward the high black bars that denoted the entrance to the Black Sector. She expected to have to shoot the troopers that guarded it, but they had moved off, presumably to aid in keeping order during the blackout. She reached the gate, found the key Higgins had pointed out and unlocked the door. The padlock had been replaced since Lynch had shot it off, and it made a heavy clanking noise as she opened it.
“Stop right there, bitch!”
She heard the stomp of boots, the rustle of clothes.
She wheeled, drew her gun. The soldier had his out but was aiming it running. He fired at the same time she did, and a bullet tore past her cheek. The trooper pitched backward, brains flying.
Eliza dragged him through the gate and banged against the bars with the butt of her gun.
“Come and get it!” she called.
The smell of fresh brains would attract the Bone Men.
Even before she heard their moans, she turned and fled.
Chapter 17
The Grand Vizier screamed at the troopers and Lynch could hear their rapid foot-falls on the expensive carpet behind him as he ran.
He hit an intersection, ducked right, reached another, ducked left. He dodged and wove through the labyrinth that was this wing of the Palace. At times he heard the members of the Royal Guard nearing him, at other times receding. He tried doors as he went. Most were locked.
One he found open and darted inside, closing the door quietly behind him -- a medium-sized office room, he saw, with several desks and cabinets. He threw himself beneath a desk as footfalls pattered past the door outside. For a while he stayed there, letting his heart slow down, letting the sweat cool on his brow.
“A little close there, old boy,” he told himself. “May want to limit that sort of activity in the future.”
Doors slammed and closed in the hallway outside. Great, they’re checking rooms. He drew the chair in very tightly beneath the desk, giving the impression that there could be no room beneath it, and having to curl himself around the chair very uncomfortably. He hoped the Queen appreciated the sacrifices he was making on her behalf.
The door opened. There was a pause, then it closed. He started to breathe out and shove the chair back, but thought better of it. He waited. After another twenty seconds, the door opened, he heard a step, and it closed again.
“Sneaky bastards,” he muttered.
Eventually he peaked out. No one. He crept down the halls as quietly as he could, sneaking a glance around every corner before crossing intersections. Shortly he heard sounds of music and conversation, and he almost sagged in relief as he entered the ballroom.
Lights and music surrounded him. He found a waiter, partook of a stiff finger of brandy, then another. The tension in his limbs began to recede. He availed himself of another cigar, stuck it on the end of his hook, and was sauntering through the revelry once more, smoking and drinking as he went and drawing disapproving looks.
“Don’t scowl at me so, you old badger,” Lynch told one dread gentlemen, “or I’ll tell your wife about your mistress -- and about that certain something you like her to do.”
The man purpled and Lynch moved on, almost whistling. When he spotted Gwyneth chatting with some lady friends, he stubbed out his cigar, downed his whiskey, and strolled over. He made sure to slick back his hair and adjust his lapels.
“Lynch!” she said, happily. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, this?” He rubbed his jaw. “Well, apparently the Duke of Staelmarcht doesn’t appreciate a good joke. I simply asked if that was his wife he was dancing with or if he had taken his love of racehorses too far, and -- well, but how ‘bout another tour round the dance floor? I promise to only maul and molest you in the most socially appropriate ways.”
Some of the ladies lowered their eyebrows. Some laughed. One turned pink.
Gwyneth offered her hand. “I would love to.
“So what happened to you really?” she asked as they began twirling around the dance floor.
“My story lacked credibility?”
“The Duke of Staelmarcht weighs a shade over a hundred pounds. He’s about five feet tall.”
“Damned mean right hook for a midget.”
“I do not know if he could have reached your jaw.”
“Didn’t I mention he was on a ladder? Must have left that part out. Would have slowed the pacing.”
“His wife is seventeen and quite beautiful.”
“Does she have a sister? One less horse-like?”
“Lynch!”
“I only meant horse-like in that she neighs and whinnies constantly, and I saw her shoo a fly away by snorting and pounding her remarkably hoof-like foot. Unlike yours, which are slender and delicate, and your laughter is like the tinkling of silver bells.” They were engaged in an elaborate formal dance with much toing and froing and touching of finger-tips and sweeping about. He longed to press her against him, and he did not think she would not have minded.
“Your tongue may be made of tin, but it’s coated in gold,” she said.
“My heart is a nice aluminum alloy.” They swirled. “By the way, where is the Queen?”
“Oh, she just left. A runner came from the Prince, I believe, and called her away.”
He stopped dancing. “Where did she go?”
“What -- ? Why -- ?”
“Dearheart
, I will be right back, only I forgot to give the Queen her birthday present. Which direction did she go off in?”
Gwyneth nodded down a certain corridor, looking at him as if he had lost his mind.
“It’s a puppy,” he told her, and set off, leaving her standing in the middle of the dance floor during the high-point of the dance. It was really going to take a lot to soothe her now, he reflected. His chances of scoring tonight had just dropped significantly. The Queen had better appreciate this.
He found the Prince’s men stationed outside a room several hallways removed from the ballroom. It was a high, brightly-lit corridor, and the doorway they stood beside was huge, oaken, and intricately-carved. There were two of them, the same two that had escorted Lynch to the smaller room to be tortured and killed earlier. He saw them first as he peaked around the corner, then ducked back to consider his options. He knew that inside that room was the Prince, and he must have his mother with him.
What excuse had he used to get her there? Had he pretended to ask her permission to court a woman he had met at the ball? Did he say he wished to discuss defensive strategy? Or did he just desire to have a private moment with his mother on her birthday? In any case, Lynch held no doubt about the true motives of the visit. Afterwards, the Prince would say that she had been overcome during their talk, that the activity and the stress of recent days had taken a great toll on her, and it was to get her away from this that he had asked her to leave the ball, but too late, her own ambitiousness had doomed her, her duty to the state had overcome her heart, all quite tragic. But how best to help the old girl?
Lynch stepped into the hall, pretending to sneak. He caught sight of the guards, waited for them to see him, and jumped in surprise. He wheeled about and ran back around the corner.
