“When was the last time you went to Temple?” Zalor asked.
The question was so strange that he couldn’t even understand the words.
“I bet it has been a long time. Your father never went, and I know he associated with those nature-worshiping Gaianist freaks. You’re going to start going. Baron-Scion Vargas here is going to see that you do. He’s also going to be the scion at your wedding, so get to know him well.”
Zalor glanced up at the bartender. A moment after Cylus was airborne. He struck the chamber’s door hard enough to crack the wood. He was pretty sure he heard the muffled break of a bone when he struck the floor after, but it didn’t matter. That terrible, stone like hand was finally gone from his throat. He lapsed into a coughing fit as his lungs convulsed, eager to get fresh oxygen into them sending a knife of pain through his side with every spasm.
“Get him cleaned up, then send him home,” Zalor said over the ringing in his ears.
“What about my—I mean—what about his betrothed?” Brudah asked.
“You’ll see her later. Look at him. The Premier-Elect is tired. He needs his rest,” Zalor turned, showing his back.
Pasqualina was at his side almost before the door finished sliding open. Looping an arm under his, she forced him to put the weight of his beaten body on her shoulder. He watched her glare at Baron-Scion Vargas behind them in the doorway, and saw him glower back. Cylus shook his head. Their defiance was hopeless. Zalor had already won.
She was first to break eye contact with the scion. Leading Cylus to one of the benches in the sitting room, she helped to ease his body down onto its hard surface. He gave her a nod of thanks. He wanted to speak but his gut pulsed with a sharp ache, and his throat was still too sore for any speech louder than a whisper.
Bright purple light flashed through the windows. The distant hiss of raging storm water on the plasma matrix of the city’s aegis cut its way into his ears and raked down his spine.
“What did you do to him?” Pasqualina’s eyes were predacious in the dim light.
Vargas moved into the sitting room, drawing himself up to his full height three strides away. He thrust out his chest so that the Daewonist medallion gleamed in the light.
“Baron Keltan had an accident, but don’t worry. We cleaned him up.” Vargas’ voice rumbled.
She looked Cylus over. Her eyes settled below his face and widened.
“Did you strangle him? His whole neck is black and blue!”
“He had an accident,” Vargas repeated.
She looked indignant. “He accidentally strangled himself? He smells like vomit and cleaning solvent. What did you do to him?”
True to Zalor’s command, the artificial bartender had shot him up with medical nanomachines to repair the cracked rib while he cleaned the vomit and piss from Cylus’ clothes. In a supply closet he slumped naked against a porcelain washbasin while the artificial worked. The nanomachines eased the sharp pain in his side, and to a degree the pain in his throat, but did nothing for his pride. He had to take shallow, rapid breaths even after they finished or risk being racked by shuddering sobs. The acrid stink of cleaning solvent burned his throat and made his eyes water, or at least that’s what he told himself.
“Let’s just go,” he tried to say. The words came out in a harsh, gravely whisper that startled both he and Pasqualina.
“What did you do?” She stood up. The tight curls of her silver-gold hair trembled.
“I already told you what happened. I am Baron Vargas, Scion of the Daewonist Temple. I have been assigned to preside at your wedding next year. I will also refresh both of your memories as to the principles of Daewonism.” Vargas’s red-brown eyes did not waver.
“What are you talking about? This is ridiculous. I don’t follow your stupid religion,” she said.
“You will,” Vargas said.
“Cosmic heat-death will happen first,” she snapped.
Vargas looked pensive. “You’re Helena’s child, aren’t you? You have lived apart from the Will of the Matre for over a decade now. You were corrupted by that Luddite spy you helped.”
“The word is liberated, and Gaianists are not Luddites.” She had iron in her voice.
“They shun technology, doesn’t that make them Luddites?”
“We don’t shun technology, we celebrate our humanity,” she said.
“Is that what you tell the non-humans you try to convert?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Fear not, Heiress Olivaar. We will save you from having to run naked around domed gardens. The Matre is forgiving, she will welcome you back into the fold. You have no choice now.”
She snorted.
“Typical Daewonist nonsense. Save your dogma and crawl back to whatever Temple-torture dungeon you crawled out of.”
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Heiress Olivaar.” Vargas turned back the way he had come. He stopped his exit to toss a sneer over his shoulder before proceeding back into the depths of the palace.
“Are you okay?” She asked when the baron-scion was gone. She put a hand gingerly on Cylus’ shoulder and bent down to look him in the eye.
“No,” he whined. The popping croak beneath his words made him twitch. It felt like someone was scouring his throat with steel wool.
She took his head carefully in her hands, coaxing him to raise it and lifted his beard so she could see his neck better. The color faded from her lips as the lines of her face drew tight. After a moment she inhaled and sat beside him on the bench. She took his hand with one of her own and put the other around him.
The moment his head touched her shoulder he shuddered and sobbed.
“Come on, Cy. I’ll bring us home,” she said.
“No, not home. Let’s go back to the yacht. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
She looked at him. “All right.”
Chapter Twelve
Lokhari Forest, Elmorus
41:2:12 (J2400:3136)
The forest whipped by in a dizzying blur beyond the edge of the hover skiff. Nero glowered from its prow, staring straight ahead as the wind stung his eyes to tears. He pressed the borrowed gauss rifle into his fatigue-covered shoulder, finding a degree of solace in its solidity. Behind him Agent Khepria sat clutching a similar weapon alongside Mamiya-san and Commander Armstrong. He didn’t need to look behind him to know what expression she wore. It hadn’t changed since that morning. He didn’t need to ask what had happened with their efforts last night. Some of his basic uplink capabilities were restored, he could feel that right away, but as for the rest? The silence in his head had answered most of his questions—most, but not all.
The dream, or memory, or whatever it was he experienced while she and Mamiya worked troubled him. Which had it been? He remembered being sent to Savorcha by Daedalus as an Abyssian. He joined up with the CSS Zeus’ Thunder in the Olympus battle group at Sasstossa, and he remembered the years spent in the dark, fighting alongside the other shell troopers and robotic soldiers. If what he experienced really was a memory, then why had it been blocked from him? If his dream was the truth, it meant Daedalus took from him whoever he was before and deceived him about it for years. It was unthinkable that the highest authority in the Confederation could be his enslaver.
The skiff slowed as they came to the forest’s edge and he rose to his knees, linking to the rifle in his hands. A targeting reticle appeared in his vision and he swept the skies and the area below, seeking Fang fighter craft and Broghites patrols that might bring an abrupt end to their mission. Through the scattering of buildings he spotted the long brick structure of the Wall ahead, and jumped down to the soft earth below.
“Stay tight and low,” he said, signaling the others.
They were professionals, and for that he was grateful. Khepria followed him trailing Mamiya and Armstrong. The latter snapped her mannequin-like faceplate down and dismounted the skiff in a crouch.
“Lead on,” her drawling Solan said through his restored cyb
ernetic link.
They moved on swift feet from house to house. The early morning air was damp and quiet save for the rhythmic chirping of the local arboreal fauna. The dark-red moss they saw frequently in the forest was dominant here, covering almost every open square of ground between the brick buildings. The fungus sucked at his soles, making him feel like he was running across a field of old blood. When they reached the wall beside the back of the grocery, he pressed himself against it and glanced up at the dark windows above before proceeding around the long building. He pounded on the double-iron doors of the club with his fist. It took three hits before they opened with a very sleepy looking Garghth dressed in a floor-length golden robe. His reptile-eyes took the group in with a few short movements, and widened to double their size.
“In! In!” he chanted, and ushering them along, slammed the doors shut behind them. The club, illuminated by dim floor lighting, smelled of stale liquor and more unsavory fluids of a biological nature. The spider-like robot Nero saw on the catwalk before was making its way around the floor with a laser-cleanser and a self-soaping mop attachment that emitted a sharp, ammonia smell.
“What is going on here?” Garghth said, his voice croaking.
“I’m back to keep my promise. No one dies for me today,” Nero said.
“I can see that. Good. Who are they?”
“I brought help. Agent Khepria, Commander Armstrong, and Mamiya-san.” He nodded to each with his head.
“It’s too early for this. The Brogh said tonight, not this morning,” Garghth mumbled.
He stiffened. “I’m sorry, but the time for this is now. I thought you were willing to help.”
“Help? What do you need my help with? You’re healed, you’re back with your friends, you have my red card—you owe me for the nanomed, by the way,” Garghth said.
“Here,” Mamiya said, stepping forward.
Garghth gave him a look. “Thank you for the money, honey.”
“Excuse me?” Mamiya frowned.
“Never mind, I’m just glad his tab is paid. I assume that’s not why you all are here.”
“We need help,” Nero said, handing the red card back to Garghth.
“I said you needed this to get around,” Garghth said, staring at the card. “This is help.”
“We need help getting into the tower,” Nero added. “And I won’t be needing this anymore.”
The Achinoi raked his clawed hand over his Mohawk making the quills rattle. “I said I was willing to help, not commit suicide. I already showed the tower to you, my part is done. Help yourselves to a drink while you think that over. If you’re trying to get into that tower it’ll probably be your last.”
“You’re a cheerful one,” Armstrong shook her head.
“Comes with experience.” Garghth snorted.
Nero gritted his teeth. “So you’re not going to help.”
Garghth regarded him for a moment with his reptilian eyes. “I said owing an Abyssian was worth it, but I didn’t realize you meant this—not exactly, anyways. Do I look like a Star Jumper to you? Wait, don’t answer, humans are notoriously bad at judging Achinoi appearance.”
Nero exchanged a glance with Khepria.
“I said I’d help you, I helped you. Your tab is paid, and you can have all the drinks on the house you want before you go. Stay here, rest up, and leave me out of whatever is coming. I wouldn’t be any good to you, even if I didn’t have this.” He leaned down, raising his robe high enough that they could see the tracker strapped to his ankle.
“I see your point.” Nero frowned.
“Good. Now, good day, good luck, and leave my name out of it when you get caught.” He snatched the red card from Nero’s hand and moved off towards the back room muttering to himself.
Armstrong’s face plate flipped open. “What’s that all about?”
Nero shook his head. “Never mind it. Let’s get this thing started. Mitsugawa and Setha are counting on us.”
“I'm signaling the attack to my men. Here we go.”
Garghth, who had his hand on the store room door, stiffened. He turned towards them, his eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing?”
Nero folded his arms across his chest. “Getting off this planet.”
The blood-colored moss retreated back into the earth by the time they reached the spaceport. With the skies illuminated by the dawn it was easy to see the group of Broghite troops surrounding the buildings as Ichiro and Setha squatted in the tree line. Around them he heard his jinzōbushi move up, their stealth-skin making them blurs in the air like heat rising off a tarmac in summer. Behind them he stationed his flesh-and-blood troops, loyal Mitsugawa men and women ready to give their lives for him—though he hoped that would not be necessary. Off in the distance the report of explosions indicated Armstrong had moved in her men.
Tengu whimpered from Setha’s side. Ichiro reached down and pet the cerberai between his ears.
“It’ll be all right my friend,” he said.
“He’s never liked battle.” Setha leaned on her sarkh.
“Hopefully he’ll only have to watch one but there will be many more before this is over.” He looked out across the cracked tarmac and triggered his face plate to close. It hissed as the seals activated, and the glowing readouts of its HUD projected themselves into his vision. He zoomed in on the buildings, spying the shorter Broghite units with the bubble-like helmets—Greeba. Their giant eyes shifted back and forth as they moved about. There were only two groups that he could see, one near the customs building and one by the terminal house. Between them, the eerie glow of the aegis around the Abyssian’s ship was visible as a blue haze.
“Two groups of eight. I think the distraction is working.”
“I can feel the heat of the generator. It is under the customs house.” Setha’s eyes pulsed with ectoplasmic green light.
Ichiro nodded. “The Abyssian will be happy to hear he wasn’t lied to.”
“Not about that, at least.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Setha shook her head.
His eyes locked onto her lean, crouching form. It would almost be a shame when they returned to Taiumikai and his responsibilities pulled him away from her. His heart beat harder when she looked back at him and a slight smile touched her small lips.
“You should be launching the attack, not staring at me.” She winked.
Ichiro felt heat rise to his cheeks and sent the command to the jinzōbushi. The thirty robotic troops raised their rifles and opened fire as one. A gentle breeze blowing through the trees became a flurry of punches as the shockwaves from supersonic bullets beat the atmosphere. The noise was like the roar of the ocean in a storm.
He watched as the first of the Greeba troops turned towards the deafening sound and exploded in a mess of gray and red. The one next to him got half-way to raising his rifle before he was torn to shreds. A few of the remaining six in the group got off return shots, but they were mowed down soon after. Ichiro looked over to the other group by the terminal building. Three of them were in pieces, but the rest had taken cover. They were returning fire from smashed-out windows while Mitsugawa bullets chipped away at the brick around them, spraying shrapnel everywhere.
“Setha,” he pointed to them.
She nodded and got to her feet. Her eyes pulsed and grew brighter as she extended her hand forward. The air before it shimmered and distorted as a red haze coalesced before her. The glow grew, intensifying until it was difficult to look at and exploded forward in a meter-wide pulse of energy. Racing across the field, it struck the building, with enough force to shatter the entire wall. He saw several Greeba go flying from the blast, and his troops cut them down.
She turned towards him and looked up. Her calm expression turned to alarm and she gripped her sarkh across her body. Tengu was already on his feet, his growls lost in the cacophony of gunfire. Ichiro turned, hand rising to his belt when a blow knocked him into a tree. Striking it winded him for a moment, but hou
rs of his father’s martial tutelage had him rolling with the blow before he regained his breath. Hoshinagi hissed as he drew it, the carbon arc-welder in its scabbard re-sharpening its blade to a nanoscale edge. He held it before him, feeling its reassuring weight in his hands as he sought the source of the attack. When he found it a chill shot through him from skin to bone.
A nude, Zebra-striped figure with amaranthine eyes and a hissing mouth of razor-teeth wrestled with Setha, grabbing her sarkh and yanking her body off the ground with it. Tengu snarled and lunged, locking his massive jaws around the little assassin’s shin, trying to tear it from the thing’s body with all his engineered might.
“Qismat,” Ichiro whispered, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. It clicked in his head that Setha was unarmored and not nearly a tenth of the artificial assassin’s strength.
“Qismat!” he shouted and signaled the troops nearby to converge on his position and eliminate the new threat.
Zalor’s perverse creature stepped and twisted, throwing Setha by her weapon into the forest. It wrenched his heart, but he had to let his training take over or he would be unable to respond. Now holding the sarkh, Zalor’s creature hissed and swung it down at Tengu. Ichiro thrust his blade forward, catching the blow on its back. The force vibrated up his arms and numbed his fingers.
“Off!” he shouted, trying to get Tengu clear so he could fight without having to worry about hitting Setha’s life-companion.
Qismat hissed, thrusting the sarkh forward with such blinding speed that the butt of it struck him square in the chest before he could move to block. The air was knocked from his lungs again, and a second blow kicked him back against another tree. Qismat didn’t stop, coming at him as he bounced off the rubbery bark, and swung the metal staff at his head.
Conscious thought relinquished control of his body to honed reflexes. He ducked, and came up from under the staff with a rising swipe of his blade. Qismat swayed back, the edge missed her by millimeters, and spun hitting him with a two-handed blow that sent him flying out from under the canopy onto the reed-covered ground between the forest and the tarmac. He scrambled to his feet, Hoshinagi at the ready, then collapsed to his knees as the pain in his side hit him. He expected the little killing machine to be on him already but he found himself unmolested.
Keltan's Gambit: Chronicles of the Orion Spur Book 2 Page 22
