by Cary Caffrey
She watched a moment, listening to the clattering of plates and rushing water, though when she retreated to the bedroom, Nuria rushed ahead of her in time to turn down her bed and help her undress, even tucking her in. By this time, Sigrid had learned not to bother protesting, and she let the girl tend to her duties, as ridiculous as they seemed.
"You're very good at this," Sigrid said from beneath the sheets—sheets tucked so tight she felt like a wrapped mummy. "Remind me to write you a letter of recommendation before I go."
Nuria looked at her uncertainly, as if not sure what to say. "Thank you, Lady Sigrid—"
"Sigrid, Nuria! For goodness' sake, just Sigrid!"
"Good night…Sigrid."
Nuria rose and walked to the door. With her hand on the light switch, she took one look back before flicking it off and closing the door behind her.
~ - ~
After Nuria left, Sigrid tossed and turned for a good twenty minutes. Glancing at the window, she saw it was already growing light. If she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd be useless on the road. Accessing her PCM, she instructed it to deliver a potent cocktail of benzodiazepines. She even went so far as to disable her safeties and ramp up the dosage well past the red line. It would knock her out all right, but it would also take a full dose of stimulants to wake her in the morning; she instructed her PCM to take care of that too.
Sleep came hard and fast.
Part Two
The Night Witch
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Betrayer
She was standing in the chairman's inner chambers. The chairman, who was quite dead, lay at her feet, along with four of his cronies. The body of the hapless security guard lay close by. The Council for Trade and Finance would not be reborn this night. The Federation would crumble. Her mistress would be pleased. She hoped.
Her work wasn't over. Not yet. For her mistress was demanding, and if she failed her, her punishment would be savage.
Bending to retrieve the security man's sidearm, she stepped over the bodies as she reentered the hall. Music could be heard from the floor below. The festivities continued, the guests blissfully unaware of the carnage in the chambers above. She wondered if they would even care. There was a frenzy in the air, the heady promise of food, drink and drugs, even pleasures of the flesh. The guests were all too eager to indulge in everything their dead host had to offer. All their lusts would be fulfilled tonight.
Or so they thought.
The hulking sidearm weighed heavy in her hand.
From the landing above, she stared down at the guests and dignitaries. She wondered what they might think if they knew what was to come. "No witnesses." That was the directive of her mistress.
There were never any witnesses.
"You hesitate. Have you forgotten yourself?"
She whirled around and saw her. Her mistress, here? She might as well have appeared out of thin air. Perhaps she had. Her mistress was powerful.
She stood before her dressed in a long, black evening dress. The wide sleeves draped nearly as low as the long hemline of her gown, reaching down to the floor. She stepped toward her. The thin, gauzy material of the dress flowed with her movements, giving her a ghostly appearance. The silver streaks in her shoulder-length hair caught the light, shining nearly as bright as the crystal chandeliers above. The eyes that met hers were firm and commanding.
When her mistress raised her hand to her, the girl shrank back. She had learned to fear her mistress, and for good reason. But the hand that fell upon her simply brushed the hair back from her face. A gentle gesture of kindness or a hidden warning?
"You feel sorry for them," her mistress said. "They are not deserving of your mercy."
Mercy? Could she still feel mercy for anything or anyone?
"The chairman is dead, mistress. I've done what you asked."
"Yet his compatriots still live."
"But those people…" She glanced down at the guests as they sipped their champagne, marveled at their couture, congratulated themselves for their greatness, and for the simple fact of not being anything but what they were: privileged. Lucky. Not poor. "They can't help what they are. They've done nothing."
"Nothing? Is that what you think?"
"They are innocent."
"We are none of us innocent."
"Then why—?"
"What do you think will happen if you let them live? Do you suppose they will feel humbled? That they will give back everything they've stolen? Build rather than tear down? Do you think they'll change their ways? No, my dearest. All they will do is laugh. Can't you hear them? They're laughing at us now. They think they've gotten away with it, and they would be right to think so."
The girl stared at the weapon in her hand, heavy, powerful. Her mistress nodded her approval.
"You, my dear, have the power. You can be the force of change."
"By murdering?"
"Is it murder to stop a serial killer from killing again? A rapist from stalking more victims? A tyrant from committing genocide? Those people you call innocent would enslave a generation."
The girl swallowed. "I know what you desire, mistress—"
"My desire is irrelevant. I cannot force you. No one can. But whether by action or inaction, the role you choose to play tonight will have consequences. Billions will suffer. Or they will be set free. You must do what you feel is right, of course."
"What I feel…?" The girl turned back, but her mistress was gone. Vanished? Or had she ever been there at all?
Was her mistress even real?
The weapon in her hand was real enough, as were the guests in attendance on the floor below. As was the choice that lay before her.
By action or inaction…
Holding the weapon tight, the girl walked slowly down the stairs. The security guard saw her and smiled, but that smile vanished as he saw the weapon raised and her knuckle white on the trigger. He reached for the comm unit on his collar. She shot him first, then two more men who rushed toward her. The guards by the door fell next, then the security squad that barged in from the kitchens.
Women screamed at the sight of her. Men whimpered, soiling themselves. She heard their pleas and their cries of terror even as they trampled one another in their haste to escape. A husband held his wife before him, shielding himself even as she screamed her horror. A woman tackled another so she could reach the exit first.
They were pitiful. Perhaps they didn't deserve her mercy. It didn't matter, as she had no mercy to give.
She emptied the remainder of the magazine, all twenty-seven rounds. The dead security man at her feet provided three fresh clips. It only took a second to reload.
The help, she spared. The footmen and women, the valets, the comfort girls. They were innocent in this. Only their masters fell.
"Sigrid, stop!"
The name hit her like a breaching charge. She spun around and saw a woman standing there. Her long hair was as black as night; her figure, slender and strong. And she was by far the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. She held a gleaming katana in her hand, raised and ready to strike. But this was done in defense, not to kill or strike her down.
"Sigrid, don't do this!"
There was that name again. Sigrid. It was a name from long ago, from another time. Another life. But it wasn't her life. It didn't belong to her. Not anymore. She wasn't permitted to think of that life. Her mistress forbade it. To remember—even to hear the name—was to bring pain. Terrible pain.
"Sigrid—"
"Stop calling me that!"
"It's your name. It's who you are."
"No, it's not." She shook her head, but that only made the pain worse. "That person is dead."
"You're wrong. She's alive. I know you, Sigrid Novak. I love you." Lowering the sword, the girl extended her hand. "Come back with me. Let me take you home."
"Home?" The pain was crippling. It drove her to her knees. "We…we can go home?"
"Yes!" The girl knelt beside her, the sword forgotten. She gath
ered her in, holding her in her arms. "Of course we can. I can help you. Sigrid, I love you so much. I can save you."
Lies!
She pushed her away. There was only one person who could save her now. Only one person who could end the pain. And that was her mistress. "No," she said, and she pressed the gun firmly into the girl's chest. "You can't."
The blast of the fifty-caliber round sent the black-haired girl hurtling backward. She landed a good five meters distant. Her body looked broken, splayed at an unlikely angle; a smoking, charred hole burned in her chest.
But the pain was gone.
~ - ~
"Suko!"
Sigrid's eyes shot wide open, and she bolted upright, fully awake.
The dream—the nightmare—had returned, this time more terrifying than the last.
Soaked in sweat, Sigrid sat panting, sucking in short breaths. Her head throbbed. The pain had returned, much sharper this time, as if lingering from the dream. It was that same warning pain: that spike driven deep into her skull. That, along with the sleeping drugs she'd taken, left her reeling, the room spinning about.
But the pain was nothing, not when compared to the memory of what she'd done.
Suko. I killed her. I shot her!
Certain she'd be sick, Sigrid lay back down, holding tight to the edge of the bed.
It was a dream. Just a dream. That was all. It wasn't real.
Unlike the last time, the nightmare images stayed with her much longer. She was able to see things now. The gala. The guests. The chairman. The dozens of dead, murdered, killed by her own hand. It didn't feel like a dream at all. The stench of gore and filth lingered in her nose, though not nearly as much as the dread of what she'd done.
Suko.
The images were fading now, vanishing. Sigrid clawed her way through the fog, grasping at the memory. Suko had tried to save her, and Sigrid had killed her.
Murderer.
Sigrid clamped her eyes shut. She refused to believe it. The dream was a lie.
Jones.
He had done this to her. Perhaps this was his parting gift: a false memory in the guise of a dream sent to torment her.
Slowly, Sigrid opened her eyes. It was over. The dream was over and she was home, back in her suite in the magistrate's villa. But she wasn't alone. A dark shape loomed above her, the silhouette of a girl moving toward her in the moonlight. She came to sit at her side. Her long black hair fell down over her shoulders, falling next to Sigrid's face. Delicate hands held her shoulders.
Sigrid sat up, gathering her into her arms. "Suko!" Tears welled in her eyes.
The bedside light flicked on. "It's me. It's Nuria."
Sigrid pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, blinking. It was Nuria. She was sitting beside her and dressed in a pale blue nightgown.
Sigrid blinked twice and shook her head, as if to clear it. Her sleeping drugs had left her in a heavy fog. In the dark, she could have sworn…
"Nuria? What are you—"
"I heard you call out. I was worried. I came to see if you were all right."
The alarm triggered instantly in Sigrid's PCM.
Nuria was lying!
Sigrid saw it, but too late—the large syringe in Nuria's hand and the four-centimeter needle stuck in her thigh. The cylinder was empty.
Sigrid reached for it, grabbing hold of Nuria's wrist. Nuria screamed and leapt back. The syringe fell to the floor, shattering. Sigrid caught the scent: Poison. A highly modified curare derivative. Incredibly potent. Definitely unstable, and thoroughly and completely deadly.
The room was spinning, though no longer as the result of any nightmare. This time it was real.
"Nuria, what have you done?"
Sigrid struggled to rise, but the paralytic was already taking hold. Her limbs felt like wood taking root. Breathing was impossible. Unable to control herself, she rolled to the floor, smacking her head against the nightstand for her troubles.
Nuria screamed again and ran to the corner, where she stood trembling.
The poison tightened its grip on Sigrid. She would be dead in moments—if she were anyone else. But the poison, as powerful as it was, was already losing its hold. Alerted to the danger, her PCM unleashed the nano-swarms on the invading toxin. Thousands of microscopic robots threw themselves at the poison, breaking the deadly molecules down, feasting on them and consuming them whole.
Sigrid flexed one finger, then another. The feeling was already returning. She still couldn't breathe, but that didn't stop her from climbing to her hands and knees. Straining, she reached out, grabbing hold of the hem of Nuria's nightdress, and Nuria screamed her terror.
"I'm…not…going to hurt you, Nuria—"
It took all her effort—she was certain her spine would split in two—but Sigrid managed to straighten. On her knees, gasping for air, she stared at the girl. "Why?"
"I'm—I'm so sorry. I had no choice. They said they'd kill him."
"Who, Nuria? Who's—"
Sigrid didn't get the chance to finish the sentence. The bedroom door burst open. Five figures rushed forward. Each of them held a thick stun baton in their hands. Seeing her on her knees, they froze. It was obvious they expected to find her incapacitated. Finding her awake, and very much alive, had thrown a wrench into their plans.
Sigrid cursed. Like the fool she was, she'd left all her weapons in the vestibule. All she had was the single tantō, the short blade she kept under her pillow. She dived for it, but the last traces of the paralytic slowed her. The five men fell on her at once. They drove the burning prods into her sides, her chest and her thighs. Sigrid felt each and every one of the electrified charges, but it only served to fuel her rage.
When the nearest of the men, the largest and fattest of the lot, raised his baton to strike her again, she grabbed hold of the weapon, turning it about and driving the prod into his stomach. He took the full force of the 450-kilovolt charge. His eyes rolled fully back and he shuddered violently in what Sigrid found to be a most satisfying fashion.
Her satisfaction was short lived, though. Slowed by the paralytic, numbed by the stun charges, Sigrid was too weak to push him off her. He collapsed onto her chest, dead weight. His four companions seized the opportunity, leaping onto the pile. And when their stun charges failed to subdue her, they took to beating her, clubbing her over and over.
Even for Sigrid this was too much.
"Bastards—" was all she managed before everything went dark.
~ - ~
Sigrid was bounced awake. Literally.
There were no fading dream images this time, only the pounding of her head as it banged against something cold and metallic.
Blinking her eyes open, her blurred surroundings came slowly into focus. She was lying flat on her stomach on a metal bench in the back of a truck and bouncing along a potholed road. Her wrists were bound and tied behind her back. They'd even gone so far as to hobble her, first by binding her ankles then by pulling them back and tying them securely to her wrists. They'd attached a choke harness as well—pulling with her wrists only yanked at her ankles, while straining with her ankles only tightened the choke collar around her neck.
Moving was impossible.
Four of her captors sat across from her. They wore grim expressions and held firmly to the stun batons in their hands, which they patted against their open palms.
"Ready for round two?" Sigrid said, though it came out more as a rasping croaking sound than words. Her throat was dry and cracked, and her mouth had a foul taste, a leftover of the toxin Nuria had dosed her with.
Nuria?
Nuria sat huddled in the corner of the van. Still in her nightgown, she was sporting an impressive black eye, bruised and swollen. Her bottom lip was split and bloodied, and the shoulder strap of her nightgown had been torn away.
These men, they'd beaten her.
She'd assumed Nuria was in on the assault—she'd thought her a coconspirator—but seeing the vicious beating Nuria had taken, it
was obvious the girl had been coerced. They'd probably beaten her for not subduing her before they arrived. And judging by the torn state of her nightdress, they'd tried to take their liberties with her as well. For that alone, Sigrid would make them pay.
Sigrid turned back to the men. Four? There were only four of them, yet five had attacked her in her room.
"What happened to your friend?" Sigrid said. "Last time I counted, there were five of you."
"Poor Jürgen," the youngest of them said, with a trembling lip. "You killed him!"
"Quiet!" the one beside him said, cuffing him across the ear for good measure. "You heard what Fryer said. No talking to her."
Jürgen? That must have been the fat one. She remembered hitting him with the stun baton. Probably stopped his heart cold. "Sorry about your friend. I suppose he should have taken more care."
The man raised his fist to strike her.
"I wouldn't do that," Sigrid warned.
"Why? What're you going to do about it?"
"I just wouldn't want you to hurt your fist is all."
The fist landed hard, five knuckles planting themselves squarely on her jaw and knocking her head back against the wall. Sigrid spat out blood. "You like beating helpless girls? Why not untie me, make this a fair fight?"
"You ain't so helpless."
"What about her?" Sigrid asked, with a glance to Nuria. "Was she also good sport for your fists? Was she a challenge?"
"Quiet!" the bigger man said. He took his stun baton and pressed it against her chest. "Nuria knows her place."
The truck lurched again, tossing Sigrid from her place on the bench. She landed hard, face down on the floor. No one bothered to help her up. Not too surprising. Hobbled and bound as she was, it was impossible to right herself. About all she managed to accomplish was to shift herself around until she was staring up at the four men—that, and to allow the hem of her nightgown to ride up over her hips, as if purely by chance.
"A little help?" Sigrid said, blinking her lashes at them. A little distraction. Wasn't that what her old instructor, Felix Rosa, was always on about? Distract your foe. Never let them see you coming.
