Keltan's Gambit: Chronicles of the Orion Spur Book 2

by Michael Formichelli

  “Sophi, we're supposed to be focused on—” he paused, glancing at Clearach'Kul'tearae and Ben.

  “It's all right, niu knows our plans. Haem Kul’Tearae is managing the network of our agents, and I assume your servant will delete this conversation if you’re so nervous about it,” Sophi said.

  He frowned. Their plan to take down Zalor was supposed to be between him, Sophi, and Sable. Ben would keep his secrets, he was programmed to, but the Isinari was an unknown.

  “Oh stop it and wipe that look off your face. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes widened as he stared at her, panting like a cerberai.

  “It's time for you to leave Kosfanter. Take my sister and run back to Anilon. Like you said on the Queen Gaia, this isn't your arena; it is mine. I'll see that you get your revenge. Just go home and play with your garden.”

  He missed his garden. His ancestors planted its fifteen acres when they came to Anilon on the first colony ship. It was the one place in the galaxy he felt safe, but he knew it could no longer shelter him—not with Zalor after what he had.

  “There's no point in going. I won't need you to be my proxy in the Barony after all. Zalor won't leave me be no matter what I do or where I go.”

  Cylus expected a look of sympathy, but Sophi's lips twisted and her eyes blazed with anger. When she spoke, the word sounded like distant thunder.

  “What?”

  “Ah,” he stumbled back. He would've fallen into the fountain if it hadn't been for Clearach'Kul'tearae's long reach. Once he steadied, Sophi’s assistant resumed niur demure stance. Ben nodded in approval.

  Sophi cleared her throat. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “Wouldn’t you be safer on Anilon? I would miss you, but it would be better for you to be at home. Let me handle the danger for you.”

  “It's pointless,” he whispered.

  “Pointless?”

  “I'm staying.”

  “Staying?”

  Cylus nodded. “Yes.”

  She tensed for a moment and took in a deep breath. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Allow me to do something for you, though?”

  “What?”

  “Haem Kul'tearae will make sure the Keynesian Fortune is ready for departure within the week. Just in case,” she said.

  “Just in case?” He frowned.

  “Cylus, I’ve known you for a long time. You aren’t happy here. You’d be better off at home, wouldn’t you? Being surrounded by your gardens, and your books. Familiar and safe environs are what you really need. I can handle things here. Why else would you have asked me to do so on the Queen Gaia?”

  Her words made sense to a degree, but she seemed to forget that he knew her, too. He could see the cold fire behind her eyes. She wanted him to go, and wanted it bad. He wondered why, but more than that, he felt her words sting him with betrayal. She was trying to coax him away like he was a child. He had a hundred reasons to listen to her, and returning to Anilon was what he wanted, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it would change nothing. Zalor would still come after him. He would still be betrothed to Pasqualina, and he would be more alone and miserable there than he was here. Anilon was special, and he didn't want his problems to follow him to the one place in the universe he enjoyed. He couldn't let it be corrupted like that no matter what Sophi wanted.

  “I won't go,” he said.

  Her nostrils flared and her eyes hardened.

  He heard a noise behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Ben moved between him and Clearach'Kul'tearae. Even knowing the artificial was doing what he was programmed to do, Cylus appreciated the gesture. It filled him with an odd confidence to have an ally in the room.

  “I won't go. I'm staying on Kosfanter.” His voice shook. Its wavering pitch annoyed him, but it felt exhilarating to take a stand.

  Sophi rose from her seat. The look on her face banished the warm feeling from his gut, and he decided he'd had enough conflict for one day.

  “So you want to face Zalor yourself? Maybe you’ll outmaneuver him all on your own and bring the Barony to its knees before you.”

  “Don’t mock me, Snowflake. I'll be going now.” He turned towards the lift without waiting for a response. She hated that nickname, he knew. He used it on purpose to hurt her like she was hurting him.

  “At least you’ll be around if I need you, I suppose. Cylus, do think about leaving. Promise me you will. It’s for your own good.”

  Somehow he doubted that, but maybe she was right. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that she was angry that he chose to stay, and that sent a chill through him. Asking her why she wanted him gone would be pointless, but maybe she was right. At least this way he was around if she needed him.

  Back in his own tower, Cylus wasted no time in reaching his private apartments on the structure's western side. A vicious thirst seized him during the trip home, and he made his way to the tower’s rec room with all of the haste his legs could muster. The bar within dominated the entire wall of the chamber with five shelves of alcohol set against a floor to ceiling mirror. Its counter was offset from the shelves by just enough to allow a single person to stand between them in relative comfort. Cylus snatched a bottle from the top shelf, a tumbler from beneath the counter, and got the drink to his lips before his buttocks touched a barstool.

  He wasn't sure when she entered, but he became aware of Pasqualina's presence after the second glass of scotch burned its way down his throat. He turned around, breathing hard like a wild animal and ready to snap at her for once again intruding on his private space unannounced, but his anger left him the moment his eyes took her in. Her features were the same, a heart-shaped face with an elfish nose and a small mouth, but it was as though an artist had painted her with a different palate. Her once emerald-green eyes were now light blue. Her hair fell in tight ringlets of gold instead of copper across her bare shoulders, and most surprising of all, the tattoo was absent from her pale skin. He blinked several times, trying to resolve the image before him with the one in his mind. It didn't help that the alcohol was already scattering his thoughts as the room drifted around him. He barely noted Ben's presence on the far side of the wood-paneled chamber.

  “Wow, that's different,” he said.

  “You like it? I got some nano-treatments while I was out. I thought you might appreciate a more honest appearance. This is what I am supposed to look like,” she said with delicate tones, watching his every move with eager anticipation. With her colors changed she looked more like her half-sister, but her eyes were sky rather than ice, and the gold of her hair was sunlight instead of snow. He found himself unable to do anything but stare for several moments.

  “Are you okay? You're sweating,” She took a hesitant step into the forest of antique furniture between them.

  “I'm—You look—ah—” with his mind blank he groped for a word. “Nice.”

  Pasqualina looked down at herself. “Oh.”

  Silence hung between them for nearly a minute before she made her way to the long bar counter. Mounting the stool beside him with her knee, she placed her hand on the counter and reached across the gap to grab a bottle of florescent-blue liquid. The label, he noted, bore the stylized glyphs of Cleebian writing.

  “Just nice, huh?” She twisted off the cap and enveloped the mouth of the bottle with her lips, taking three deep swallows of the fluid before placing it on the counter.

  “No, not just nice. You look good.” She looked fantastic, but the thought of telling her felt too close to giving in to her game. He couldn’t let her have that.

  She snorted. “Should I change it back?”

  “No, no, please don't. I'm sorry. I'm distracted. I actually like it. It's just that the meeting with Sophi didn't go well. It was strange, stranger than strange—weird.” He refilled his tumbler, shot down another three ounces of scotch, and smacked his lips together while puckering his face. “I need something better.”
r />   “Try this.” She offered him her bottle.

  He took it and filled his mouth. The liquid was fruity with a chalky-sweet aftertaste.

  “That's good. Ben, thank you for stocking this. What is it?”

  She cut in before his servant could answer. “It's called 'Axiom' in Solan. It's a Cleebian cocktail. That's all I know about it. I used to drink it a lot in college.”

  “I shall ensure we have more by tomorrow,” Ben said.

  “Where did you study?”

  “You can't guess? You know my adoptive father.”

  “Uncle Olivaar? I bet he sent you to Venus University. I can't imagine a more pretentious place.” A warm sensation was filling his stomach. He imagined it was the scotch and the Axiom mixing in his belly. Half a smile crept up on his face.

  “You got it, Venus University.” She took another long drink from the bottle.

  “What did you study?”

  “Astro-engineering. I wanted to study art, and Hagus wanted me to study geology or business. I would’ve killed myself if I wound up in an MBA program, so I spent my first year bored off my ass looking at rocks,” she said.

  “How did you wind up in astro-engineering?”

  “Something happened over the long break between first and second years. I visited Brudah on Ganymede, and I remember we talked a bit about how unhappy I was. She had some kind of fight with Hagus, and my second year started with my major changed to astro-engineering. It wasn’t that I wanted to study that, but it was better than rocks.”

  “Why didn't you just change it to art?”

  She gave him a pointed look with her new eyes. It was sharp without being accusatory and sent a shiver down his spine that, for reasons beyond his comprehension, translated into a tingle in his groin. He swayed in his seat.

  “I didn't have a choice about what I studied. That was made clear to me from day one. Hagus was upset enough about Brudah's interference. He and Helena made that clear, too.” She looked down into the bottle.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. Then, when his body swayed again he added, “this stuff works fast. I like it.”

  “What happened at Elthroa?”

  He held his hand out. She filled it with the bottle and he took several big swallows before returning it. He felt as though the blue fluid was bubbling up straight through his palate into his brain, and the feeling of floating like a balloon in the breeze led him to suspect that Axiom had more than alcohol in it.

  He smiled. He had a new favorite drink.

  “Sophi happened. I don't think I was right to give her Elthroa. She's turning it into her personal spy agency.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And she wants me off Kosfanter, though I told her I was staying.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about what she might do with them. He knew he shouldn’t be sharing details with her, but his alcohol-sodden will could no longer control his mouth.

  “Oh,” she said.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I'm not going. I already made up my mind. To hell with her. I'm not going. I told her so to her stupid, snow-white face.”

  “It's what you want?”

  He met her gaze, and nodded.

  “Good, then don't go. I'm glad,” Pasqualina said.

  “You didn't want to go?” He expected her to side with her sister.

  “I'm glad because it's what you want.”

  Cylus looked at her, his eyes traveling down the slope of her nose, over the crimson fullness of her lips, and onto those of her body until he reached her suede-clad feet. Then he brought them back up the full curves of her frame. They lingered on the depth of her cleavage, prominently displayed by the low neck line of her dress. She arched her back a little, enhancing his view. Pasqualina was very different than Sophi, he noted. Where Sophi was narrow and slight, Pasqualina was rounded and full-figured. Her body pressed against itself in the confines of her dress in tantalizing ways that drew his eyes.

  “You look pretty,” he said after he returned his eyes to hers. His head swam with the effort. He felt numb and euphoric all at once. It was hard to believe this drink was made by a species that worshiped mathematics. It was too much fun. “Too bad you’re a spy for Zalor.” He smiled, then frowned. Had he just admitted to knowing? He looked back towards Ben and almost fell off the chair. Her hand grabbed his arm, steadying him. By the time he regained his equilibrium he’d forgotten what he just said. “You’re very pretty,” came out of his mouth without warning.

  “Thank you.” She passed him back the Axiom.

  “You’re welcome.” He brought the bottle to his lips.

  Chapter Five

  Lokhari Forest, Elmorus

  41:2:11 CST (J2400:3135)

  Mitsugawa “Sable” Ichiro stepped from the wide opening of the tent into the brisk damp of the Elmoran morning. The wisps of dense mist rising like ghostly fingers among the dark trees reminded him of his father’s ink paintings. Beneath the fog the night sentries returned to their tents, and the day watch marched out to the clicking of ceramic-polymer armor. The red moss under their feet withdrew into the soil before the brightening light as though growing in reverse. It was a strange artifact of this place, and had he more time he would have loved to study it in detail.

  “Mitsugawa-uesama,” Mamiya-san said from behind him.

  The hollow rattle of his own black armor filled his ears as he turned around and accepted his helmet. Modeled after the armor of his ancestors, it had a flared neck guard and three horns rising from the arch of its dome. The retractable face-plate was modeled to resemble a high-tech demons, and the eyes glowed fiery-red when the helmet was worn. It was meant to intimidate those on the battlefield as much as it was an homage to the martial tradition from which his people came. He often wondered what kind of effect it had on their inhuman enemies. Did they find it as intimidating as humans did? Was it comical to them? Friendly?

  “A lovely morning,” he said in Taiumigo, the language of his home world, and took the helmet.

  “Yes, brisk and humid as was the last,” Mamiya-san responded in his usual deadpan.

  Ichiro placed a hand in the nook between Hoshinagi no Tachi and the curve of his breastplate. “We won’t be here for much longer. Hopefully the Abyssian had some good news for us.”

  Mamiya-san looked about to reply but cut himself off and moved his head to look behind Ichiro. Turning, he saw Commander Armstrong in the gray and red armor of her company, and CSA Agent Khepria dressed in her black-and-silver uniform, approach them. Armstrong’s mismatched brown and blue eyes met his with a steely gaze that told him what she had to say was not good news. His hypothesis was further confirmed by the twitching ears above the Relaen’s red braids. Both stopped and bowed to him from two strides away.

  “Good morning,” he said, switching to Solan.

  “Good morning, Baron Mitsugawa,” Agent Khepria replied.

  “Mornin’, though it ain’t a good one,” Commander Armstrong said in a heavy frontier drawl. “Toes here says her kuschelbär didn’t come home last night.” She cocked her bald head in Agent Khepria’s direction.

  He frowned. “Mamiya-san?”

  “I assumed Praetor Graves was still in contact with Agent Khepria.”

  “I have not had contact since last night,” she said. “I went to Commander Armstrong first thing this morning. This is not like him.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slow. He was sure Abyssians could take care of themselves, but it was his understanding that Praetor Graves was wounded, and he supposed it was possible that the cyborg got himself into trouble in town. It was another unexpected worry in a growing pile. Mamiya-san’s plan of hiring a mercenary group with an FTL ship to get them home was now completely out of the realm of possibility. No merc would risk an expensive FTL vessel to come to the aid of a baron caught behind enemy lines. That left them with only one real option: find a ship and see if Setha’s contacts at the temple would come through. The Praetor had
a ship, and it was Ichiro’s intention this morning to accompany Setha to the Savorchan temple and secure the other half of that plan. If the Praetor was detained things could become difficult.

  “Walk with me.” He tucked his helmet under one arm and started through the musty camp, heading towards its northern edge. The two women fell in on one side while Mamiya-san followed a step behind on the other. “Do we have any information to indicate Praetor Graves was captured?”

  “The Broghite signals we’ve decoded don’t show any unusual activity,” Mamiya-san said.

  “What is the status on the laboratory?” Ichiro asked.

  Agent Khepria made a visible effort to still her quaking ears. “We have recovered enough information from the damaged servers to know that they were working on Siren here. We have serial numbers from the machines themselves. They might be traceable, though I doubt that will turn up much. The real evidence is to be found in what they tried to erase before they shut the facility down. That, plus the samples of Siren that Setha neutralized, makes for adequate evidence to open a case against Baron Revenant in the Barony.”

  “Adequate?”

  “There is nothing directly indicating Baron Revenant’s involvement, at least, not that I can tell from here.”

  He nodded. “Keep going. Perhaps the serial numbers will work out in spite of our misgivings once we get off this planet.”

  “We may be able to establish a financial trail leading back to our enemy or an interest we can show he controls,” Mamiya-san said.

  Ichiro nodded in his direction. “Will it be enough?”

  “Perhaps,” the mechanized man responded.

  “I will get on it, but first we need to find Praetor Graves.” Agent Khepria gave him a pointed stare with her amber, cat-like eyes.

  “He is vital to our getting this evidence back to Kosfanter. I will not forget about him. Is it possible his communicator is malfunctioning?” he asked.

  “It could be,” Agent Khepria nodded.

  “Then we’ll give it some more time before we go looking, but I mean it. I will not forget,” he said. She seemed to accept that and some of the tension left her body. “Commander Armstrong, what about the Broghite patrols?”