Codename: Night Witch

by Cary Caffrey

  Farrington.

  The name hit her hard, smashing away so much of the fog clouding her mind. Farrington wasn't a name she was going to forget anytime soon. Dr. Joseph Farrington had tortured and killed her friends on Scorpii. And now her mistress had called him here to "treat" her. One last time, she'd said. She couldn't let that happen. But to refuse her mistress…

  She found herself trembling. Her mistress did not tolerate defiance.

  It took all her will, whatever she had left, but Sigrid forced herself to meet the woman's eyes.

  "Your-your name is Emily."

  Slowly, Emily turned to her. "I am. Though I am curious, Sigrid, you've never called me that before."

  "Your name is Emily Gillings-Jones."

  "Yes."

  "Then…you're the one who's been doing this to me—making me do those things. All this time."

  "And what exactly is it you think I've made you do?"

  "Assassinating the Council—murdering my friends!"

  "Friends?" Her mistress practically spat out the word. "You mean Kimura? The same friends who tried to kill you not two days ago? I believe you'll find they are no friends of yours. Not any longer. And not for a long while."

  "You made me forget—"

  "Because you asked me to! You begged me to make you forget!"

  Emily rose abruptly, only to pace back and forth in front of the settee. She wrung her hands together with such force Sigrid was sure she'd rub them raw.

  "You—you were having difficulty, Sigrid. You kept questioning me. Resisting! You were always resisting. But I understood. The things we asked of you—the burden was too great. Removing your memories removed that burden. It gave you strength."

  "Strength?" Sigrid asked. "You call this strength?"

  "Of course! We gave you the strength to do what needed to be done." She came to sit by her again. "My dear girl, I know you don't remember, you never do, but you will! I promise you. And when you do, you will come to understand."

  But Sigrid did understand. She understood perfectly. This woman, her mistress, she was mad.

  And she was remembering. It was barely discernible, just blurred fragments of noise and light, but the more agitated her mistress became, the more the pain that blocked her ebbed, retreating away. It was like a window opening—if only for a second—but it was just long enough for Sigrid to catch a glimpse of everything that was.

  The memory was of years ago. It was just after Bellatrix. The Independents had her. They'd taken her and brought her here to Earth.

  She was back in that white room and strapped to her gurney, just as she had been only days ago. But this time, she wasn't alone.

  Harry Jones was there and very much alive. He stood off to the side, watching anxiously as clusters of white-coated physicians and technicians descended on her. They cut into her with their knives, their probes and their needles. Fluids were drawn; entire organs removed, only to be replaced again. All the while Sigrid watched, very much awake and very aware of what they were doing to her, feeling every cut, every hand, every instrument thrust into her, unable to move or scream.

  There was a woman lying next to her on a matching gurney, though to call her a woman was a stretch. Like her, she was pulled apart and torn open. It was only the machines that were keeping her alive. They fed vital oxygen to her brain and kept her heart pumping, her muscles from wasting away. She was a living husk. A woman in name only. A woman who would one day become Sigrid's one true mistress. And she was the same woman seated next to her now.

  "You were sick," Sigrid said at last.

  "Sick?" Emily laughed and Sigrid tasted her bitterness. "If I was sick, it was only because they made me that way. They broke me, Sigrid. Your Lady Kimura broke me. She broke me and then she discarded me. I should be dead. I would be. But you, Sigrid, you saved me. Your blood saved me."

  "My…blood?"

  Even as she voiced the question, she understood. The answer was so glaringly obvious, the only question that remained was why she hadn't realized it before.

  Emily nodded. "You were not the first of our kind, Sigrid."

  Our kind?

  "You were not the first, Sigrid. You weren't even the one hundredth. Many women came before you. Many men, as well. They came, and they died. But you, Sigrid, you were the first success. My husband knew the key to the genetic recombinant was hidden within your blood. Blood which you gave to me."

  "I never gave it. It was taken. You stole it from me."

  "Perhaps. But your blood still saved my life. We are forever bonded, you and I."

  "You lied to me!"

  "No, Sigrid. I have only ever told you what you needed to hear. I have only ever given you the truth."

  "And now you're going to tell me that those people down there must die—that I should kill them?"

  With her arm around her, Emily smoothed Sigrid's hair back. "I would never tell you that which you already know. This is the end, Sigrid. This is what we've been working for all these years."

  "You used me. You stole my life! I should kill you."

  "Yes," Emily Gillings-Jones said. "You should. But you won't. You can't. We are…sisters."

  Sigrid shook her head, though doing so made if feel like it would twist itself off. "You are not my sister."

  "Perhaps," Emily conceded. "But I am still your master, am I not?"

  Sigrid swallowed hard. Pain gripped her mind and her body. But like a fist raised high over her head, threatening to strike, this was only a warning, a taste of her mistress's fury should Sigrid refuse her.

  "You will obey me, Sigrid."

  "Yes. Yes, my mistress. I will obey you."

  Behind them, the door opened. Harry Jones entered silently.

  Dr. Joseph Farrington followed behind him, though when he saw Sigrid, the color drained from his face. He stood trembling, frozen in fear.

  "Why is she awake? You told me you had her prepared!" His shaking nearly caused him to drop the small black box in his hand. Sigrid saw it. Her eyes flashed from the box to the man who held it. Farrington caught her glance; he raised his arm, pointing at her. "She knows! She knows who I am! Damn you, Jones. I warned you this would happen. She'll kill us all!"

  "Really, Doctor." Calmly, Harry Jones extracted the module from his trembling fingers. "You must learn to govern yourself."

  "She hasn't had a treatment in a week," Emily said to her husband. "Hurry. We must restart the cycle."

  Dr. Farrington took two steps back, inching toward the door. "You can't just restart the cycle. It's not that simple. You'll kill her."

  "Courage, Doctor. We only need her alive a few hours longer."

  Armed with the module, Harry Jones pressed the button in its center; Sigrid heard the metallic snick as the six-centimeter data-probe snapped out.

  He moved toward her fast, the data-module held firmly in his hand, the metal probe shining bright. Sigrid pushed herself back against the settee. She couldn't let him get near her with that thing. If he did—if he slipped that probe into her—it would all be over. Whatever was left of her would be erased. She would remember nothing and the cycle would start again. She had to stop him. She had to kill him. But all she could manage was a small whimper.

  "No."

  "Hold her," Harry Jones said.

  Emily tilted Sigrid's head to the side. She pulled her hair back to reveal the two-millimeter-wide port that would allow the data-uplink to access her internal systems.

  Powerless to resist, Sigrid felt the tip of the probe graze the skin of her neck. And then Harry Jones froze.

  "I think we have a problem."

  For a moment, nobody moved. It was Farrington who broke first as he tripped and fell over backwards in his haste to get away.

  But they all saw it: the access port to her PCM—the port was fused solidly shut. It had been ever since Victoria had tried to remove the memory blocks, and Victoria's probe was still lodged firmly inside her head.

  They couldn't access her. They couldn'
t treat her! Sigrid's heart raced as she fought to process what was happening. They couldn't control her anymore. They couldn't stop her.

  "You bloody fools!" Farrington blurted. "You didn't think to check—"

  "Quiet!" Harry Jones said. "I need time to think."

  Time was something Harry Jones didn't have. Leaping up, Sigrid lunged for him. Jones was less than a meter from her. He was within easy reach of her fingers. She was already envisioning her hands around his thin throat and choking the life out of him.

  She never made it.

  The pain hit her like a thunder strike, cutting her legs out from under her and cutting her down. Sigrid fell hard, dropping to the floor like a stone. The sting of her mistress's lash left her gasping and ruined, weeping and quivering where she lay on the floor.

  Emily stood over her. The useless data-module was still in her hand. She crushed it in her fist and cast it aside. Treatments or no, her mistress still held dominion over her.

  "P-please, mistress…"

  "Please? You would ask for mercy now? You attacked my husband—tried to kill him, and not for the first time."

  "Mistress, I beg you."

  As if to demonstrate her dominance, Emily released her grip on her, standing over her, straddling her. Soaked in sweat and still reeling from the pain, Sigrid lay beneath her, unable to move. The attack had left her muscles in twisted ruins, and she'd been sick again; a small puddle of bile pooled against her cheek.

  "I have no desire to hurt you, Sigrid."

  "Yes, my mistress."

  "You brought this on yourself."

  "Yes, my mistress."

  "You will stop fighting me."

  "Yes, my mistress. I-I won't fight you." Somehow, Sigrid found the strength to roll over, if only enough to look up and meet her mistress's eyes. "I won't fight you. Though, perhaps I won't have to. Not anymore."

  The air of confidence slowly vanished from Emily's face.

  "Sigrid? What have you done?"

  "I have done nothing, mistress. My friends, on the other hand…" Sigrid checked her internal chronometer. Twenty minutes. Her time was up. All of their time was up.

  It arrived like a violent crack of thunder. Overhead and all around them, first one explosion, then the next—charges laid around the grand palace's perimeter by the colonel and Victoria. They were going off in quick succession. The walls of the marquis's chambers shook with a violence that threatened to tear the entire palace apart. Books and trinkets fell from the shelves. Paintings dropped from the walls, smashing their frames.

  Dr. Farrington clung to the great oaken desk, doing his best not to topple over as the walls and floor shook around him. "What in the blasted hell is that?"

  Gritting her teeth, pushing against what felt like the weight of ten men piled on top of her, Sigrid rose on her hands and knees. "That, Dr. Farrington," Sigrid said, "is plan B."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Voices

  All around her, the grand palace of the marquis di Valparaíso continued to shake itself apart. Chunks of ceiling rained down on them. There seemed no end to the storm of chaos.

  "Leave!" Emily commanded her husband. "Get out of here. Both of you!"

  "No! I won't leave you. If you can manage her, then I'll stay."

  "I can manage her. But I can't manage our guests downstairs. They can't be allowed to leave. Not yet."

  "But without the treatments—"

  "She won't kill me," Emily said, and Sigrid, despite her defiance, believed her. "We can finish what we came for, husband. But we must act now. Now go!"

  With one last look back, Harry Jones left. Dr. Farrington remained where he was, frozen in place, too terrified to move.

  A dozen new explosions sounded outside. These were even closer than the last, and they tore into the outer walls of the palace. Sigrid saw the flare of fires burning in the courtyard. It wouldn't be long before the entire place was burned to the ground.

  "Your friends will kill everyone inside if they're not careful," Emily said. "They may do our work for us."

  "They know what they're doing. They won't let either of us leave here alive."

  "Then we must hurry."

  Despite the chaos, the plaster and dust that continued to rain down on them, Emily Gillings-Jones rose to her feet. Calmly, she extended her hand to Sigrid.

  "Come."

  Sigrid stared at the offered hand and her mistress, who stood so calmly before her. She wanted nothing more than to take that hand—twist it and break it—but the warning pain was always there, tightening its grip on her, a constant reminder of her place. Emily was still her master, and Sigrid her servant.

  Side by side, they walked to the door and out into the hall. Fires burned in the corridor, blackening the walls and licking their way up and across the ceiling as more explosions brought more mayhem.

  Emily led her by the hand to the landing overlooking the main hall. Several small fires burned in corners, on tables, threatening to spread. Dust and smoke filled the air. The hundreds of guests shrieked their terror. They surged for the exits, pushing and trampling one another, only to find the exits barred and squads of soldiers—Independent soldiers, rebels—pushing them back.

  "Not a pretty sight," Emily said. "They'd kill each other if it meant they could escape."

  "They're afraid, mistress. They think they're going to die."

  "They are going to die. Behold."

  Following her mistress's gaze, Sigrid looked down to find a weapon in her hand. How it came to be there, she didn't know. But it was there, and it was real. Sigrid felt the power in it, and her heart raced. It seemed such a simple thing, to caress that trigger, to take another's life. Even more simple to take a hundred. But of course, she was the Night Witch.

  "Am I to make an example of them, mistress?"

  "An example? An interesting question. Who do you think is down there, Sigrid?"

  Sigrid studied the crowd below, scanning each one in turn. They were pathetic, the worst examples of a corrupt Federation's excess and greed. No one would miss them. But that wasn't what her mistress meant, or why she wanted Sigrid to kill them.

  "Life-traders," Sigrid said, and her mistress nodded. "You've brought the life-traders, mistress."

  "Yes, Sigrid. They are the life-traders. One hundred and eighty-five of the most corrupt and vile individuals you can ever hope to meet. They are the beating heart of the corporatocracy. Together, they own the life debts of more than fourteen billion people. They own even you, Sigrid." With her hands gripped tightly on the railing, Emily Gillings-Jones stared into the cluster of plutocrats. "You will be their destroyer, Sigrid. You will be the force of change."

  "By killing them, mistress? By murdering—"

  "No, not by murder, Sigrid. By stopping this cycle of madness!" Turning, Emily grabbed her shoulders. Her fingers bit deep into her flesh. "Don't you understand? Can't you see what's at stake? In one stroke, you can wipe clean the life debts of billions of people. Kill them, Sigrid, kill the life-traders and the Federation collapses. Do this, and you will free not only every person alive today but entire generations to come! You can do this, Sigrid. You can, and you will."

  Staring into the eyes of her mistress, Sigrid knew that Emily Gillings-Jones was insane. Sigrid had no love for these life-traders. They were slavers, trading and speculating on peoples' lives—even on the life debts of the unborn. But this, murdering them, gunning them down in cold blood? No matter what Emily might say or think, this was still to be a massacre. A massacre she was utterly convinced she was about to commit.

  "You won't survive this," Sigrid said.

  "No. I doubt either of us will. But if I can't give the world a hero, perhaps a martyr will do. It is time."

  Slowly, with the weapon clutched firmly in her hand, Sigrid started down the stairs. The Independent soldiers allowed her to pass, and Sigrid waded into their midst; it was like walking through a sea of tall grass. The three hundred guests surged around her as they pushed bac
k and forth against each other. To her surprise she found her targets already marked for her in her PCM. Her mistress, Emily, would show no mercy. Only the news broadcasters would be spared. But of course, someone had to live to tell the tale.

  There was one target singled out and marked as a priority. Justice would start with this one. The crowd parted and Sigrid came to stand before the person she would kill first.

  Unable to stop herself—or perhaps fearing what would happen if she did—she raised her weapon.

  Her hand shook fiercely. If she hesitated, it was only for a moment. The pain wouldn't let her. It was relentless, whipping her like a beast of burden under the hands of its cruel master. The voices in her head were worse. No longer whispers, they shouted at her, spewing their reminders: This was a fitting target, wasn't it? This was justice. This woman had betrayed her, sold her away and abandoned her when she needed her the most.

  "Lady Hitomi Kimura," Sigrid said, "I'm-I'm sorry."

  Lady Hitomi rose and leaned heavily on her lacquered cane. Four faltering steps brought her face-to-face with Sigrid. But where there was fear and anguish in Sigrid's eyes, there was only calm and kindness in Hitomi's. Kindness and love.

  "Don't apologize, Sigrid. I owe you my life, more times than I can count. If killing me will end this, then I would gladly see it done."

  "Hitomi, you don't know what you're asking."

  "I know exactly what I'm asking, Sigrid. Kill me and be free."

  Holding the gun steady was impossible. Sigrid gripped it in both hands, yet it still wavered. Perspiration stung her eyes. The sweat on her hands made the handle of the recoilless slip.

  But her mistress's orders were clear: Do it! Kill her! Kill her and free yourself. Free yourself from the pain.

  Sigrid shook her head fiercely. She wanted quiet. She wanted all the voices to be quiet. And she knew how to silence them. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  "Sigrid!"

  This voice was real.

  Sigrid blinked.

  Suko shoved her way through the crowd, coming toward her.