The Jade Queen

by Jack Conner

  Others were locking down the Palace.

  Wasting no time, Lynch slinked from the area of the Throne Room. When troopers stormed by, he shrank into an alcove until they passed. Damn it all, he thought savagely. They’ll search the whole sodding building. They’ll . . . Wait.

  “Genius, Lynch old boy!” he whispered to himself. “Now you’ve found the most direct path to suicide yet. Bravo!”

  There was one place in the palace that would not be searched.

  He mounted the wide stairwell leading up to the Queen’s tower. Here there were no guards, for there was no one to guard, and when she was awake she likely didn’t require guards anyway. Does the bitch even sleep?

  Lynch found the topmost room and entered the Queen’s lair.

  The suite was a ruin, of course, but the Society goons had hid it well, with hangings and rugs and light fixtures, and many artifacts from the old city surely meant to put the Queen and her son at ease. Lynch didn’t know if chipped plates and cracked mosaics from his hometown would make him feel particularly welcome, but he supposed it was the thought that mattered. The thought was doubtlessly Please don’t kill us.

  Lynch found the huge bedroom with its gargantuan bed covered in bright silks and pillows. It all looked slightly Arabic to him, Moorish perhaps. Of course, the silks and blankets had not come from the old city but were the Society’s attempts to recreate what they assumed was its feel.

  If nothing else, the suite occupied the whole level of the tower, so Lynch had his pick of hiding spots. In the dustiest, most seemingly-little-used room, he sat up shop. The chamber boasted a small, turnip-shaped window affording a pleasant view of the city. The sun still shone, so Lynch kept away from the window as much as possible.

  Though tempted to smoke a cigarette, he remembered the fate of the sentry he’d killed and resisted. He only hoped the smell of the ones he’d smoked earlier had faded. Getting caught by his smell would, on the proverbial (and only proverbial) other hand, provide a bad joke for him to die on. He could just imagine some high-society snob, one of those who’d looked down on him all his life, saying at some ball, And I told him smoking would be the death of him -- HA! Big laughs all around. Funny guys.

  Lynch started as the door banged open. He crouched low as the sounds of kissing and groping and murmured love-sayings reached his ears. He charted the Queen and Prince’s progress through the suite by their fervid smacking and pawing. Gooseflesh popped out on his arms. Mother and son . . .

  Perhaps the ancient Atlantans had not feared the results of incest. They seemed to have the ability to shape their own bodies, maybe control genes -- how else could they be so perfectly formed and live such long lives? -- so maybe they could prevent birth defects. Maybe the royals controlled their pregnancies. They lived long lives and they would not want too many children tripping them up, potential rivals for the throne. Look at the Queen and her son: she’d had to give him his own crown, for God’s sakes.

  Queen Iasolla and Jeselri reached the bed. Lynch tried to close his ears, to no avail. He could hear the bed shake from several rooms away. The floor trembled, and the walls. The temperature increased, slightly at first, then more and more, until soon beads of sweat stung his eye. It was as though some fantastic maelstrom spun out of control, growing in power and chaos -- growing, growing. The sounds of the lovers’ moans and grunts and love-sayings bowed before the sounds of the creaking bed, trembling floor, and shimmering of the air. Lynch worried that the ceiling might fall in, or the floor crumble beneath him. The sounds and sensations built and built, until at last they reached an insane, mutual crescendo, then dropped off.

  Lynch wiped the sweat from his forehead. He imagined the combined sweat of the lovers could float a horse.

  They talked in whispers for a while, and he tried to listen in, but they spoke too faintly, and at last lapsed into silence.

  This was the perfect moment to end them both. They were too dangerous to approach awake, especially without Gunnerson’s prototype -- that could, apparently, shield its bearer from some measure of their attacks.

  When he judged them to be deeply asleep, Lynch crept out of his hiding spot. Walking on tip-toes, he moved to the bedroom, peeked in, saw queen and prince lying in each other’s arms on the sheet-strewn bed, both sweaty and flushed -- and stepped over the threshold.

  Very gingerly, he stalked toward them.

  Closer, closer. He could see the rise and fall of their chests. The queen’s chest was bare, and he caught his breath at the sight of her splendid breasts, the nipples still hard. A red spot that must be a bite mark stood out on the creamy white skin of the left one. One of her long, shapely legs stirred, subsided. A golden anklet glittered. Lynch paused, then moved on. Mother and son faced each other, as at dinner, their foreheads almost touching. Lynch neared them, smelled the reek of their sex. It nearly overpowered him. He found himself blinking and shaking his head. His eye watered.

  Almost to their bed . . .

  He tugged the fingers of his left glove, about to rip it off and expose the hook, with which he would slit their throats and send the two lovers to hell. They would go happily after a nice good fuck. Everyone should be so lucky.

  The Queen propped herself up.

  “What is it, soldier?”

  They had still been awake! Staring into each other’s eyes. Perhaps they did not even need sleep.

  She gazed at Lynch levelly, unconcerned at her nudity. A bead of sweat trickled between her perfect breasts. Her nipples jutted right at him. Her emerald eyes flashed like the knife she’d wielded at dinner.

  He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to let your highnesses know that the murderer James has been caught and is being questioned even now.”

  “Questioned? He knows nothing. Have him killed at once.”

  Lynch bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He started to go.

  “One thing, soldier.” It was the Prince.

  Lynch turned back to see the handsome young lion of man sit up, his huge chest gleaming, his chest hairs beaded with moisture. He had a love bite that stood out lividly on the side of his thick neck.

  “Yes, my lord?” Lynch said.

  The Prince sort of smirked. “The Queen and I -- ” he shared a glance with his mother, whose left breast now brushed his right arm -- “have been talking. She’s told me about your glorious . . . ah, Third Reich . . . and we were wondering -- Why exactly do you think your race is so superior? Why do you deserve for us to make you supermen and lords of the earth?” He was trying not to smile, trying to be polite, which was interesting, but he clearly did not think the Germans deserved such an honor.

  Lynch popped out in new sweat. Only a matter of time before they notice my marble eye. Then this gets really interesting. Only their infatuation with each other had kept them from noticing till now.

  He kept his face lowered as he answered, “Well, sir, we are a great and glorious race. We are, uh, the Master Race.” He paused. Shuffled his feet. “I was just wondering . . . Well, I had a friend -- he was wondering, completely randomly -- when we’re made supermen, will it increase our penis size? Not that my friend needs it, you understand. Or all of us Germans. Like sausages! Just that he was curious.”

  Queen and prince regarded him. The Queen threw back her head and laughed.

  The prince said, in mock seriousness, “Tell your friend that to become a true superman you must undergo various treatments. No one serum will make you ideal. And some of the treatments are quite painful. Some even die from them.”

  The Queen ran her hand across the Prince’s hard belly. Her lips brushed his upper arm. He turned to her and they exchanged a long kiss. Lynch saw a noticeable stir in the sheets around the prince’s loins. God, but he was hung like a bull! Might be worth the risk of death . . .

  Lynch bowed and retreated, sweating and trembling and cursing himself. He quit the royal suite and lit a cigarette on the landing. Still shaking, he leaned against the wall and caught his breath.<
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  Boot-steps clattered up the stairwell.

  Lynch snapped to attention as a tough-looking soldier of middle years mounted the stairs. He bore the stripes of a brigadefuhrer, and Lynch saluted.

  “What are you doing up here?” the man snapped.

  Lynch removed his cigarette from his mouth and ground it beneath a boot heel. “Just . . . ah, just checking on Their Graces, Brigadefuhrer. They’re doing fine. Thought they might want some refreshment. But no. They’re okay. No refreshments.”

  The brigadefuhrer glared at him. “Don’t you know there’s a manhunt going on? And the Allies have just launched another attack! I’ve just come to report it to Their Imminences.” He ground his teeth and added, “Wait here.”

  He vanished into the suite to give his report, and Lynch was tempted to bolt. However, he thought the brigadefuhrer could prove useful. Indeed, the man came out and snapped, “Follow me! I will give you something to do.” He started down the stairs, and Lynch trailed obediently in his wake. “You should be flogged,” the brigadefuhrer said over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The brigadefuhrer led him through the palace, and Lynch saw teams of troopers scouring the halls and checking suites one by one, hunting for him. He made sure to keep step with the brigadefuhrer. The superior officer led him outside, and Lynch could not remember ever being more grateful to have left a building.

  Chapter 25

  After Iasolla and Jeselri left the Throne Room groping, the party broke up. Lord Wilhelm moved toward Eliza, and she made fists at her sides, knowing he was going to proposition her again.

  Sure enough, the first thing he said was, “Did you know that I have the largest suite in the whole Palace? Save for the Queen’s, of course. I would love to show it to you. It has many . . . interesting qualities.”

  For God’s sakes, he had struck her in the face just days before! He seemed to have utterly forgotten it. To him such things may not even matter. He struck who he wanted, when he wanted, and they had best deal with it themselves. They certainly could not be tolerated to show bitterness, and if he should grace them with his attention at some future date they should consider themselves lucky to receive it.

  “I would certainly like to,” Eliza said, “but -- ”

  Several troopers rushed in, breathless.

  “An attack, sir!” one said. “The enemy attacks up the southern slopes!”

  “Damn it all.” Lord Wilhelm’s face tightened. “I had thought them finished. Well, so be it. Once more, we shall show them who their better is.”

  He stormed off without a nod to Eliza, sweeping up the soldiers in his wake. She breathed a sigh of relief and returned to her rooms, hoping that she would find Lynch there. He would be waiting for her, and he would take her in his arms and they would kiss, then make love, as they should have done earlier. She should never have let him go off without a farewell lovemaking. It had been ages since their last tussle, and the way things were looking they would never get another chance. She had been such a fool.

  As she entered her rooms, she pricked her ears, listening for the creak of boots, for Lynch’s steady breathing, for his musky smell.

  The air smelled of cigarette smoke, and she found her liquor lighter than it had been before, but that was it. She’d missed him. Damn.

  It wasn’t long before she was glad of it, though.

  Knocking erupted from the door. Lars Gunnerson, at the head of a detachment of troops, looked hard and sullen. “We need to search your suite,” he said. “We’re looking for the murderer James.”

  “And you think he would be here?”

  “We’re searching every room. It will only take a moment.”

  She allowed them in, and they searched every room in the suite, quickly and efficiently. She found herself sweating, and she had to sit down so her trembling legs wouldn’t betray her. Had Lynch left anything behind?

  Lars sniffed the air. “I smell cigarette smoke.” He looked at Eliza suspiciously. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  She smiled what she hoped was a confidential smile. “Only rarely. Lately, with all the activity, I’ve been inclined to indulge more than before.”

  He nodded, but slowly.

  Please don’t let him ask to see the cigarettes, she thought.

  “You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “I could do with a smoke myself. Would you give me one? We could share a smoke, just two old friends.”

  She shivered, suddenly cold. “Darn it, I just smoked my last one. If you come across any, let me know, because I’m sure I’ll have the urge to smoke more very soon.”

  “I shall keep my eyes open.”

  Looking disappointed, he took his troopers and departed her suite, off to check the next set of rooms. She trembled even more violently when he was gone, and if she’d had a cigarette, she certainly would have smoked it. Instead she helped herself to a finger of liquor. Then another. She tried to read a book that she had requested taken from her rooms at the Queen’s Arms, but she could not concentrate on the words.

  The world will end tomorrow. And Lynch was out there somewhere, running, being hunted, and she could do nothing to help.

  After dark, word arrived that the Casveighen attack had been repelled. About an hour later, a knock came at Eliza’s door, and a trooper delivered her a message.

  “Lord Wilhelm requests the pleasure of your company,” he said. “He’ll be waiting for you in his suite.”

  Turn him down politely, she thought, and opened her mouth to give the instruction. Closed it.

  On the other hand . . .

  “Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She primped herself, squirted perfume, dallied a bit, making him wait for her, then sauntered through the halls to his suite at the foot of the Queen’s tower. A trooper opened the door, and she found Lord Wilhelm in what he was using as his living room, smoking a cigar and wearing a burgundy smoking jacket. He had wetted and combed his hair straight back. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and he put down his cigar and strode to her directly, reeking of expensive cologne.

  “Ah, my dear, I didn’t think you would come.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Earlier, you seemed less than enthusiastic.”

  He showed her to a chair and offered her a glass of brandy. She accepted.

  “Actually, I didn’t want to then,” she admitted, trying to blush. “But then I began to think about what you said, if Iasolla had resisted you. A man who could take her on, and the Prince as well . . . They are like -- well, gods. A man who could fight them must be like a god as well.”

  Confidence burned in his eyes. “I have been studying their technology for ages. The Queen herself has taught me some of her secrets to better repel the invaders while she reawakens the city’s machinery.” He raised the leg of his silk pajamas, revealing an ankle holster with a strange-looking gun in it. “Would you like to see?”

  About time. “Yes, please!” She injected a purr into her voice.

  Grinning wider, he pulled out the gun, knelt over her, letting his arm brush hers, and showed off his weapon. It looked like a strange pistol, made of brass, or some brass-like compound, with a slightly flared, bell-like muzzle.

  “Would you like to touch it?” he asked.

  She stroked the gun, ooing and awing. “It’s so big,” she tittered, then cringed. Have I gone too far?

  Instead of seeing through her, though, he laughed, charmed. “I like to think so.”

  “You wear it even to bed?”

  “I am never without it.” He replaced the gun in its holster. “Here, my dear, let me refill your drink.”

  “Ooo, is that a Cuban?” She picked up the cigar and ran her fingers over it suggestively.

  “Have a puff,” he offered, pouring her more brandy. “I like a woman with the smell of a cigar on her lips.”

  She stuck it in her mouth and pulled a drag, then coughed. “It’s divine,” she said. She walked throughout the rooms, as if taking the tour, lett
ing him chase her. She smoked as she went.

  Proud of his lair, he said, “Fascinating architecture, is it not? I plan on having Jeselri giving me a detailed account of the Palace and the rest of the city, taking me building by building. I admit I began my study of Atlantis to find out more about my ancestors, and I continued my study to find out what their knowledge could do for me, and for the Third Reich, but now I confess to studying the Atlantans out of simple fascination. They were an amazing people. Did you know . . . ?”

  She gravitated toward the darker, more little used rooms, trying to move casually. Shortly she smelled something rank.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “What, my dear?” He came up behind her, placed his hands around her hips.

  “I think I smell something -- ”

  She yanked back the tarp she had covered the corpse of the trooper with. When she saw the body, she screamed as loud as she could, putting fear and surprise into it.

  “Mein Gott!” Lord Wilhelm said.

  Her screaming aroused the soldiery, and in moments troopers buzzed throughout the rooms, removing the dead trooper and cleaning up the mess. Other troopers poked throughout the suite, looking for more corpses or hidden assassins. Eliza sat in the living room, fanning herself with a piece of paper and drinking more brandy. Lord Wilhelm looked shaken and resigned.

  At last she stood and said, “I do hope you’ll excuse me, Graf. I am no longer in the mood for . . . .relaxation.”

  He merely sighed. “I was afraid so.”

  Chapter 26

  The brigadefuhrer delivered Lynch to a junior officer. Cool mountain air stirred across the grounds, and Lynch breathed it in with relish. His shirt had stuck to the small of his back, but his sweat began to cool.

  “He was loitering,” the brigadefuhrer snapped. “Give him something to do. I must meet with Herr von Ostholstein. We have an attack to repel.”

  The junior officer nodded, and the brigadefuhrer marched off.

  “You should be flogged,” the officer noted mildly to Lynch.