by Cary Caffrey
"I killed you on Bellatrix," Sigrid spat. "I saw it. I saw you burn!"
"Did you? Memories can be a tricky thing, Ms. Novak. Don't you think?"
The pain came hard again, winding and twisting its way through her head. Sigrid collapsed against the wall, grasping at her temples with her hands.
"What have you done to me?"
Harry Jones pulled his thin lips into a smile. "Why, absolutely nothing, Ms. Novak."
"You took my memories. You stole my life."
"Your memories are not part of the equation. Eliminating them was necessary. We needed to free you from that burden."
"Burden? What burden? What are you talking about?"
The crowd surged between them, people pushing past: a waitress with a tray of empty fluted glasses headed for the bar; a couple arm in arm, deep in conversation. For a moment Harry Jones disappeared. Sigrid blinked, wondering if she'd imagined him. But there he was again—and looking exactly as she'd seen him on Bellatrix six years ago, taller now, older, pale and painfully thin.
"How…?"
"It is time, Ms. Novak," Harry Jones said. "Time for you to get to work. Time for the Night Witch to make her mark."
Night Witch.
Her world heaved about her. She clamped her eyes shut, clinging to the wall behind her, waiting until the tipping floor steadied itself under her feet.
When she opened her eyes, Harry Jones was gone.
~ - ~
In the tradesmen's underhall deep beneath the palace, seventeen flesh-traders and their procurers waited in the closed staging area. It was a small room, sealed and locked. Here they would await their turn to be escorted under guard to the gala in the main hall above. Most of the men and women were already juiced, doped up with enough narcotics to make them appropriately compliant. All of them, except, of course, for Suko and Nuria.
Suko was pacing, frantic as she called to her comm.
"Sigrid! Sigrid! For God's sake!" She was calling out loud, and she didn't care who heard her. Something had happened. Something terrible, and blast it if she wasn't sealed away in this dammed vestibule.
"What—what's happened?" Nuria said.
Terrified, Suko shook her head. "I-I don't know. It was Sigrid. She called, but now I can't get her back."
Suko tried again, calling to Sigrid on all available frequencies. She called in the clear, not caring who intercepted the signal. But there was nothing. No response. Sigrid had cut her off.
The locked door to the staging area was thrown open. Five guards rushed in. An officer in a pressed black uniform stepped forward, regarding them.
"We've intercepted a transmission coming from this room. You will submit to a search—"
He never finished the command. His eyes gaped wide and his hands clutched at his crushed larynx as Suko's fist pressed hard against his throat.
Suko helped herself to his sidearm and keycard as he fell backwards, dead. The four guards at his side never got the weapons from their holsters.
Nuria gasped at the sight of the five dead men at her feet. It had all happened so fast, too fast for the young girl to take in.
Suko was already off and running, out through the opened door and down the corridor, making for the hall above. Nuria had little choice but to follow as fast as she could.
"Victoria," Suko called, "can you hear me?"
"I can. And there's a good chance everyone else can too."
"It doesn't matter. Sigrid's in trouble. Are you in position?"
"I am. We're right outside. I'm here with Colonel Bhandari and his men."
"Good. Because we're moving to phase two. Twenty minutes, Victoria. Do you understand? Twenty."
There was a pause, and Suko heard the crackle of static in her comm.
"I understand. But, Suko, once we start this, there'll be no stopping it. If you're still inside in twenty minutes' time—"
"Don't worry, Victoria. If we're not out of here in twenty minutes, it's only because we're already dead."
~ - ~
"Dammit!"
Victoria was crouched beside the colonel and his two men. They were just within the high perimeter walls of the marquis's villa. Large banks of snow, plowed into heaps from the marble walkways, shielded them from the fireteams of guards who walked their patrols in the distance. Around them, the snow fell heavily, landing about them in enormous white flakes. The scene might have been serene if it weren't for what Victoria knew was happening inside. And what was about to happen now.
"I'm gathering all is not going well," the colonel said.
"No. It isn't. That was Suko. She told us to move to phase two. Twenty minutes."
Without questioning her, the colonel opened the satchel at his feet. Taking out one of the explosive charges, he held it in his hand, as if to admire it. "These charges, I'm gathering they're not part of some diversion tactic, after all?"
"No, Colonel. I'm afraid they're not."
"And you would do this? You would kill one of your own?"
Victoria took the charge from him. With a flick of her thumb, she swiped the easy-off tab, arming it.
"Colonel, if what Suko just told me is true, Sigrid Novak is no longer one of us. Perhaps she never was. Either way, she's gone, Colonel. And if we don't kill her, then this is going to be Procyon all over again."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Kindness of Strangers
Sigrid pushed her way through the crowd, searching, but it was no use. Harry Jones was gone. Had he ever been there at all? Was all of this in her head? Was she going mad?
She couldn't trust herself to answer any of those questions. She was losing it. She was losing herself. Her feet had grown sluggish and heavy. All around her, her world was slipping away, melting before her, dripping and sagging like candle wax. The faces of the guests became smeared, drooping, and their voices were little more than incoherent noise.
But there was another noise—closer, more intimate—a voice, a whisper meant only for her. It called to her, and she heard it clearly, and she understood what she must do.
Standing was difficult. Moving, nearly impossible. Yet she had no choice but to obey. Only obedience would free her and end the pain.
Dragging herself against the wall, Sigrid started toward the sealed double oak doors of the conference room. Drunkenly, and with her world tilting hard over, she shoved aside anyone who might get in her way. She was halfway there when a new whispered voice spoke to her. But this was a voice she was forbidden to hear.
Don't listen. It's a lie.
Sigrid halted. Teetering on one of her heels, she nearly fell, only to stumble back against the wall. She remained there with both of her shoulders pressed to its hard surface. Clamping her eyes shut, she heard the call again.
They are lying to you. This isn't you. Don't do this.
But along with this new voice came something else. More pain, and it came at her with a vengeance. To listen was forbidden. To listen would only make the pain worse.
You're not alone. We're here. And you are loved.
"Get out of my head!"
"Excuse me. Are you all right?"
Carefully, fearing her world would implode, Sigrid opened one eye and then the other. With great effort, she focused, only to find herself staring at Lars Koenig, the marquis di Valparaíso.
Sigrid had reviewed every piece of intelligence the magistrate had on him—all the photographs and holo-scans—yet it was another thing entirely to experience the leader of the Pharma-Cabal in the flesh. At six-foot-four, he towered over her. And when he smiled, it was to reveal two rows of perfectly aligned and gleaming white teeth, perfect teeth that brilliantly matched his deep-set eyes and golden hair.
Sigrid stared up at him. He was still smiling at her. Why on Earth was he smiling? Didn't he know she was here to kill him? Didn't they all know?
"What?" Sigrid managed, between short, stunted breaths.
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help notice—you look a little green."
&
nbsp; "I-I had a little too much to drink."
Lars nodded. "Yeah. One of these wags probably spiked the punch. But if you're going to be sick, you might want to do it somewhere else. That kind of thing is generally frowned upon in this group. And the staff won't let me hear the end of it."
"I'll be all right. I-I just need some air."
"I can do you one better. Here."
Without waiting, Lars put his arm fully around her. He stopped short of picking her up, but Sigrid was acutely aware of him supporting her. The guests made way, as did the security guards, as he whisked her through the crowd.
But he was taking her in the wrong direction. Sigrid looked back over her shoulder to the sealed doors of the conference room. She had to go back. Her mission demanded it. Then, she realized: upstairs. He was taking her upstairs. And she understood—she remembered what would happen up there.
The sounds of the guests and the music retreated, easing the chaos in her head. She was vaguely aware of the goings-on on the floor below, the people staring up at the marquis as he whisked this young girl away to his private chambers.
This was all exactly as she remembered. It was her nightmare come alive. The rich carpet, the paintings lining the walls, the large wooden door at the end of the hall. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Everything except for Lars and his apparent kindness.
He leaned Sigrid up against the wall long enough to pass his hand over the lock. The door swung open, and before Sigrid realized it, the marquis scooped her up in his arms to carry her inside.
Sensing their presence, the lights came on. They were set to a low, moody tone. He deposited her on a settee, then lifted her head up briefly to fluff a pillow, which he placed under her head. With Sigrid taken care of, he moved toward the great window that lined the far wall. Turning a dial, he opened it a small crack, allowing a rush of frigid but fresh air to wash in.
"You said you needed air," Lars said. "Better?"
Sigrid didn't answer. Keeping her focus was proving difficult. Lars's tall frame kept warping and tilting, and his kind behavior toward her was proving even more bewildering. She had to remind herself, this was the same man who'd sent freelancers, hired killers, to abduct Roos and those girls from the Crossroads. He was a slaver and a drug peddler, wasn't he? She knew what he would have done to them. She could only imagine what his intentions were for her.
She didn't have to imagine long.
Lars made his way back to her. Sitting on the edge of the settee, he loomed over her, leaning down and across her.
So, he was to have his way with her, then.
Typical, Sigrid thought. He wasn't even going to ask permission. To men like Lars, women were just objects, property to do with as they pleased, and—
"Mind the reach," Lars said; he was fumbling behind the settee, just behind her head. He was rummaging around for something. "Ah, here we are."
From behind the couch he withdrew a small wastebasket. He tipped it upside down, emptying out a few small crumpled bits of paper before presenting it to Sigrid. He waggled it before her.
"In case you want to throw up. This way, all you have to do is lean your head over. Much better than praying to the porcelain gods, don't you think?"
"The porcelain what?"
"Gods. You know, because when you throw up, well, it's like kneeling at an altar. Never heard that one, eh?"
"No. I'm afraid I haven't."
"Hmm," Lars said, looking disappointed. "Never mind. Is it too cold?" he asked, with a nod to the open window. "I can close it. Or I can have one of the staff bring you a blanket. I'm afraid that dress of yours, while it is—" he took a long intake of breath "—quite spectacular, it doesn't look like it has much to offer in the insulation department. Frankly, I don't know how you ladies do it. You have far more courage than the likes of me."
Sigrid stared up at him, blinking. "Then you're not going to…?"
"Not what?"
Sigrid did her best to prop herself up on her elbows, though doing so only caused the room to spin further out of control, forcing her to clamp her eyes shut again.
"I thought you only brought me up here to—"
"To what? To have my way with you?" Lars grinned back at her. "I am many things, my dear girl, but I am not a rapist. You looked like you needed help—and a friend, if I may say so. If I can manage just one of those things, then perhaps this evening won't be a total disaster."
"Why would it be a disaster?" Aside from the fact that I came here to kill you.
Lars actually snickered and grinned. "You can't be serious. You do understand what's happening here tonight?"
"Of course," Sigrid said, though of course she didn't.
"The war for Earth is over!" Lars said, sounding overly grandiose and raising his hand high. "The sun is about to set on the old world. The dawn of a new age is at hand! My speechwriter wrote that. Do you like it?"
"What on Earth are you on about?" Sigrid said. She couldn't keep her head up anymore and was forced to lie back down.
"I like you, Ms…?"
"Rodriguez."
"Well, Ms. Rodriguez, I suppose it won't be secret much longer. As it happens, a new chairman for the Council for Trade and Finance will be named here tonight. Alliances will be formed! The Independents will be routed. And all those rich bastards you see down there will become a whole lot richer."
Sigrid understood. This was to be exactly as in her dream. Lars Koenig would be named chairman. The slaughter of the plutocracy would begin here in this room, with him.
"You?" Sigrid asked cautiously, not wanting to give herself away. "You're to be the new Council Chair?"
Lars merely snorted, chuckling. "Me? Hardly. I don't think these corporate types would go for an ex-smuggler acting as their chair. No, they have one of their own in mind. I'm afraid I'm just the go-between. An ambassador, if you will. And this," he said, gesturing about him, "this place is just neutral ground. Though it won't be for much longer if I don't get back downstairs and attend to my guests. Wars have been started for less. God forbid we run out of hot canapés."
And then he rose, straightening his tunic with a tug. "Good evening, Ms. Rodriguez. I hope our paths cross again soon. When you're feeling better."
There was a short knock on the door.
"What?" Lars demanded, annoyed at the intrusion, and sounding much more like a proper marquis.
The knock came again. Three short raps.
"All right! I'm coming." He took three steps toward the door when it swung open with such force it knocked him fully back.
"What in the devil—?" was all he managed.
As tall and as powerfully built as Lars was, he was no match for the opponent who came through that door, moving on him. The creature moved fast. One moment she was framed in the doorway, the next, she was at his side with her hands on his throat. She lifted him from his feet and hurled him against the wall. The impact shook the walls and knocked Lars cold. He slid heavily to the floor.
And then the creature turned. It was coming toward her.
Sigrid lay there frozen, paralyzed. Fear gripped her, making it impossible to breathe.
Not since Bellatrix had she seen something move like that, or strike terror into her like this thing did. Only her sisters could move with such blinding speed and power. Her sisters—or the machine girls Harry Jones had constructed on Bellatrix. Girls like Victoria.
But this creature was neither. And she wasn't a girl, she was a woman—a woman Sigrid knew well. Her name was Emily Gillings-Jones, and she was Sigrid's one true master.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Master & Servant
"Do you know who I am?" her mistress asked.
Breathing was still difficult. Speaking was out of the question. Sigrid did the only thing she could and she nodded.
"Do you know why you are here?"
Again, she nodded.
"Did he hurt you?" she said, with a glance to Lars's unconscious form.
He was alive, if barely. His life signs registered faintly in her scans. Finally, as if permitted to speak at last, she managed a few words. "No, mistress. He didn't hurt me. He was kind to me."
Mistress. The word sounded strange, though she knew it to be true. For this woman was her master, and she would obey her without fail.
"Sympathy?" her mistress inquired. "Really? You know what he is."
"Yes, mistress."
"I'm starting to wonder if you do."
The woman stood before her, with both her hands on her hips. Her mistress was a tall, handsome woman, powerful in her appearance. Her shoulder-length brown hair was streaked with a shock of silver so bright it caught the light, shining nearly as bright as her emerald eyes. Sigrid felt weak in her presence. She felt small.
"Are you able to stand?" her mistress asked.
The question wasn't born of concern. This was evaluation. Sigrid did her best to sit upright. She was glad for the bucket Lars had left for her, and she used it now. Her mistress waited until she was done. Under her watchful eye, Sigrid struggled to stand, only to sit back down again.
"It is difficult, mistress."
"Only because you resist. You know how you get when you resist."
Sigrid watched as the woman came to sit at her side. She moved soundlessly and with a simple grace. She placed a hand on her forehead and then on her flushed cheek, a familiar gesture, like that of a mother to a daughter, checking on a fever.
"You're not well. You've missed too many of your treatments. It's your own fault, of course. It was wrong of you to run away like that. You should never have left the facility. You had us all very worried."
"I'm sorry, mistress. But the treatments—"
"Are necessary. They keep you well. They allow you to function. We've had this conversation before. Must we have it again and again? You're a grown woman, not some adolescent girl to run from needles. Oh, now I've upset you. Never you mind. We'll have you fixed up shortly."
Raising her arm, her mistress brought the comm-link pinned to her sleeve to her lips. "We're here, and we're waiting. And…bring Dr. Farrington. It looks like we'll need his services one last time."
