“Nothing. You say there is no evidence?”
The other man shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing that we’ve found yet. Of course we’ll continue our investigation, but the fight to eliminate the cell . . . The damage was extensive, and the cell personnel obviously maintained a low thumbprint on their environment. Not to mention that even with the surprise of the assault they managed to destroy all of their data . . . it was rigged that way from the get-go. Even the weapons and gear cannot be traced. Ghosts. Very good ghosts.”
Lester’s distaste increased. “Say it. Can be traced nowhere but . . .”
The other man swallowed audibly, as though choking down a particularly unwholesome morsel before finding his tongue. “Except a Word of Blake cell. It all points to a Word of Blake cell.”
Lester nodded perfunctorily. “Dismissed.”
The other man hesitated only a moment before he quickly bowed out of the room.
Insufferable sycophant. The melancholy sank in further as Lester closed his eyes, ached with a decision he’d been putting off for too long. A decision he wanted . . . no, needed . . . to have evidence to support. My dear . . . what am I to do? I’ve no evidence at all . . . and yet . . . I know. I know!
The beautiful features of his wife swam behind his closed eyelids. “You do what you must, dear.” He could almost feel the warm breath on his ear as her soft, strong voice firmed his spine.
This was no Word of Blake cell. It was a masterfully crafted ruse. But she forgot. Forgot that more so than any other people of the Inner Sphere, the Regulansremember. They remember the horrors of the Jihad. Remember the long hunt and the extreme measures taken during those harrowing times to eradicate The Master and his mindless followers. Remember the subtle nuances of the Word of Blake and their machinations . . . nuances missing here.
He slowly straightened as the pain of frustration turned to the fire of resolve, despite the anguish of the decision he was about to make. Nevertheless, the fire quickly grew, becoming a beast.
You do not play with such fire without getting burned, my lady.
27
Mountain Retreat
Paltos, Atreus
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
1 August 3137
Anson Marik stood perfectly still as a flurry of subordinates scampered around trying to decipher the deluge of information coming in via the courier JumpShip recently arrived.
Always an angry man, but usually able to blow off steam, he felt the pure malevolence inside him now burning at a temperature that matched the heat of any star. He knew that if he moved, he might strike a subordinate moving past him in the makeshift command room in the family’s mountain retreat. While he generally cared little for subordinates, able to replace them as needed, he knew it wouldn’t stop there. A mild fear actually tickled at the base of his spine of a fury so great he might not stop until a man lay dead. Until many lay dead and he’d bathed his arms in blood to quench the thirst of his rage. Through sheer force of will he kept himself unmoving, but his mind raced around in endless circles.
Thrice-damned ol’ man ignored me. Me! Ignored our pact. Went off on some damn fool errand within his realm and couldn’t even be bothered to rattle his little saber toward the Protectorate border.
That bitch. Stole my home world. Captured other worlds too weak to hold out and manipulated the tincanners into doing her dirty work. You failed me, Daniella. You failed!
Greedy Lyrans and their whore archon couldn’t wait a moment longer. Had to invade . . . Invade!
(His mind didn’t even register the news that the Lyran invasion fell across the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey as well.)
The malevolence moved like magma below the cap-stone of a rumbling volcano and the fury turned white hot, until his skin burned and all vision swam away beyond the bright spark of that one emotion. Only a single thought kept it contained, kept the explosion from escaping . . . kept his hands dry of blood, this day.
They know how dangerous I am. They’ve conspired. All three. At once. They’ve come for me. But I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead yet and they’ll learn to regret that. As long as I’m alive, you’ll all learn to regret it. First the Lyrans, then you, ol’ man. And then you, bitch. Especially you!
Though he’d not spoken a word in the half hour since receiving the news, the occupants of the room shrank away from Anson as though he’d bellowed his thoughts at the top of his considerable volume, their bowels turned to jelly in fear of their leader’s too-bright eyes and face twisted beyond all humanity.
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
Jessica’s eyes actually warmed as her son Christopher crossed the private room and kissed his mother on the cheek. Surprised, she hugged him for a moment longer than normal and an unexpected joy welled up.
“Mother,” Christopher said in a deeper tone than she remembered him having, taking a seat across from her at the small table.
She drank in his features, noticing the more mature look, the lines of responsibility that filled his face and even the carriage of his shoulders. While she expected such changes—hoped for them—she found herself surprised. Did you really change so much?
The dark, handsome man abruptly smiled and a strong hint of her irreverent young boy peeked through. She smiled in return, reassured. After all the changes to her children over the past two years, for reasons she could not quantify she knew a small measure of peace that her Christopher appeared to be the least changed.
“And how was your trip?” she said easily, beginning to pour some tea for the both of them.
“Long, Mother. Very, very long.”
“Just long?”
He laughed easily. “Oh, if you want details, Mother, I can give you details that would bore you out of your mind.”
“I’m sure, my son.”
“Then the only reason I’m here, in this place, is to report. The real reason you allowed me to ski off mountains and leap out of planes and play chicken with comets.”
On the verge of a nod, she paused to examine her feelings at having her son returned and surprised herself with her response. “Yes, the report is important to me. To us. To so many. But I am glad to see you, Christopher. Truly. Glad to know you enjoyed the trip. Glad to see you returned and safe.” She raised a hand in warning. “But never tell me about dodging the comets.”
Christopher smiled and examined Jessica’s face, as though searching for any hint of insincerity, before nodding slowly. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re welcome.” They both took sips of their tea, the act as ordinary as if they sat together and did this every day.
“Well?”
He laughed. “I knew you couldn’t wait too long, Mother.”
She shrugged in an uncharacteristic display of openness, as though a meek question mark. But she refused to say the words. That’s going too far, Christopher, even for you.
Her son surprised her once more with how quickly he moved from the light banter of mother and son to the deadly serious nature of his report. Not even a hint of your usual lightheartedness glinting in your eyes, my son? Perhaps you are changed more than I imagined.
“Fontaine is interested, Mother. He specifically mentioned that unlike Anson or Lester, you had the good grace to ask.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting how such a small thing has garnered such support. Yet I can hear the ‘but’ in your voice, my son.”
He nodded gravely. “Despite the coalition nature of the Free Worlds League,” he continued, his tone and phrasing shifting slightly as though he were presenting a speech given him. “Despite our diversity and our penchant for divisiveness. Despite the failures of so many captains-general . . . the Marik name is likely the only beacon that can unite us. You may be the leader to start it, but if you want a rebirth of the Free Worlds League to be successful . . . to live beyond you . . . there must be Marik blood. Bring me Marik blood and you have my support.”
Her son finished the delivery hesita
ntly, as though unsure how his mother might react. A possibility she found distasteful in the extreme, it nonetheless was a possibility she had long contemplated in solitude, not even taking counsel with her beloved husband.
She picked up her tea and sipped, unaware of the strange look of fear in her son’s eyes as she contemplated all that had gone before . . . and what might still need to be sacrificed.
28
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
15 August 3137
“Is this report accurate?” Jessica almost crowed. Though it was long expected, the timing could not have been more perfect. Standing in the private room off her bedroom, she wanted to twirl like a little girl at Christmas.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Torrian Dolcat responded, his white teeth flashing.
“When?”
“We’ve not pinned down a specific date, yet. But the news appears to be roughly a month old.”
“And all along the border? Including Tamarind-Abbey? “
“Yes, Your Grace. It would appear the Lyran Commonwealth is attempting to finish off what it started during the Jihad before Devlin Stone’s peace finally slowed its work. They’ve hit across almost the entire border. Give me a few more days and I’ll have more concrete information for you.”
“I’m sure you will. But this could not have worked better if the Lyrans and I had been in on it from the beginning. Anson will be completely tied down. We’ll be able to fully secure our gains. Perhaps even expand.” She breathed deeply with the excitement of the escalation of her plans until she could almost hear the screams of capitulation from the threads in the seams of her dress. And perhaps even Fontaine will capitulate. Anson may have pulled a fast one by secretly moving his capital to Atreus, but Tamarind is right on the border. Likely already lost. Fontaine will be primed to accept my bid. Perhaps I can even ignore his demands for Marik blood.
She nodded firmly. Yes, perhaps. Being hunted like a dog does wonders for what one is willing to accept. She smiled again, ignoring her spy master and forgetting their last anguished meeting, still resisting the urge to twirl.
The woman moved casually in the dark.
Having long prepared for this day, she knew the lay of the chateau better than half the staff and could walk entire sections blindfolded and half drunk. While she’d been tempted to try such a training exercise, she knew the unwanted attention being found drunkenly wandering the halls might bring would be disastrous.
Like a ghost drifting down lonely halls she walked, her white silk gown standing out like a beacon in the dim light of the long corridors. She smiled. Trivids always showed a man sheathed like a sea lion carrying more toys than a ’Mech, slinking from one darkened corner to the next and taking hours to arrive at his target. While that path worked, she preferred the easier route. The route that allowed her to live in the lap of luxury for long periods of time before activation might occur. If ever. Several times, yearlong submersions had been called off, allowing her to move on as though she were a norm.
And now? Activation had come and yet she didn’t need to skulk, or crawl on her belly through the filth of some sewage pipe, or any of a half hundred other unpleasant ways to gain entrance where you’re not wanted so enjoyed by men. No, here she moved as though she owned the place. Across long, long months her nighttime jaunts in her nightgown had been considered strange, then unusual, then odd, then normal, then the most devastatingly powerful weapon in her entire arsenal . . . boring.
When security grew bored, the night came out to play. In her case, in plain sight.
She cycled twice down the corridors before making the first commitment, just to make sure the bored guards hadn’t deviated from their normal schedules and were taking an unscheduled piss, or grabbing some quick flesh in a corner with a willing maid. Still, she moved to the door and opened it with only a slight hunching of her shoulders and a quick glance up and down the hall as though guilty. After all, he was a man still without attachments at his age and she was young and beautiful. Her lips curved smoothly at the bemused thoughts that would cycle through the guards’ brains and turn into court gossip weeks from now if they managed to catch a glimpse of her entering the room.
Now, having reached her first target and secure from an errant guard seeing her movements, she quickly slipped out of her nightgown and allowed it to pool around her feet. The man was a notoriously light sleeper and if he rolled over and opened his eyes only for a moment, a ghostly white nightgown would have him awake at a most inopportune time. No, the slick darkness of her ebony skin provided a perfect camouflage in the near pitch-blackness of the room and she slowly moved toward the bed. Eyes closed, she strained her ears to listen for any interruption of sleep (or the proximity of someone in the hall) and slowly slid each foot forward, just in case a shoe or some dropped object changed the mental path to her target.
Coming to the edge of the bed, she waited a full five minutes to ensure that she knew exactly how the target lay; then her hands found the unfashionably heavy necklace that a solid year of wearing ( my dead mother’s . . . she told me I must never let it leave my
skin) had turned boring as well. A subtle tug and it came free. Memorized hand movements economically assembled it into a dagger; after another long minute to verify that her movements had not disturbed the target from sleep, she struck, driving the blade into the base of the skull from the side, killing him instantly.
She calmly moved toward his private bathroom and extracted a silent-spraying cleaning agent deposited weeks before. She sprayed across the blade, her hands and arms and even her chest just to be sure as she stood in the shower. Five minutes not only ensured that the agent dissolved and sloughed off any blood, but also ensured that her stay in the room equaled approximately twenty minutes.
More than enough time for a man his age to have his way with a nubile young aide. She replaced the can, then carefully disassembled the knife into a necklace and replaced it over her head, then dressed and slipped back out, the carefully constructed look of mixed joy and shame (not to mention the slight sheen the cleaning agent gave her skin that appeared to be sweat) appropriately in place.
Another ten minutes of wandering and her obligatory bathroom stop and she slid into the next target’s room; this time with more alacrity, because the last thing she needed was some randy guard creating a scene because he saw her slipping into a woman’s bedroom so late at night. This time, her breath quickened slightly. Never more than a single target in one night.
A night to be remembered.
She performed the same actions with frightening precision, reaching the bedside of her second target only nine seconds later than her first after entering the room. Her hands once more wove in the darkness, pulling the blade from the necklace like an arcane magi fashioning a foci. She paused again and then struck . . .
Only to have her blade foiled off target by an unexpected presence at the neck. A long, frighteningly loud scream rent the silence as her target awoke to the feel of the hammering blade searing flesh along her neck and lodging in her spine. The woman tried to jerk the blade free, but succeeded only in snapping it.
Bitch! You broke my blade. My naming blade! She punched at the target’s head three times in quick anger, but knew her time was up and flew to the window, tearing it open and diving through the light screen into the night. Despite her disparagement of men and their need to slide through filth to prove they had accomplished a goal, she knew when and where such things were a necessity. And while she was good . . . very good . . . even she had a backup plan or three. She sprinted across the sculpted lawns until she found the right area, then dove into the bushes, ignoring painful scratches, as she hunted for the right place. Her hands found the stake and she pulled it up, digging furiously into the roughly piled loam as the house finally exploded into activity, lights and blaring horns and the sound of running feet mimicking an anthill that had been kicked. Below the dirt she found the hatch installed in the sewer line and opened it,
then shimmied through and closed it. She ignored the effluvia of human filth that immediately swam into nearly every orifice of her naked body as she began to crawl toward the junction and the much larger tunnel that would lead her away from here. She knew she’d come out of this sick and with infections in the most painful places . . . but she’d be alive.
And in the end, while only two targets were hit . . . she’d sent the message.
Epilogue
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
20 August 3137
Nikol drank sloppily from the bottle of water.
The small dribble down the side of her mouth went unnoticed. Why do I feel so empty? Why don’t I cry? Despite the age difference between her and her two older siblings, they were still family. And seeing Janos’ body, and the wreck of Julietta’s throat . . . her lips quivered at the memory.
After a showdown with her father over whether she was grown-up enough to see the devastation (how petty that all seemed now), she forced him aside and viewed her brother’s murder scene in its entirety—the splash of crimson life across the snowy white landscape of the sheets and elderly skin like a rash of boils; at another time, seeing her oldest brother half naked in sleep might have caused her discomfort, but the horrific scene left only hollowness. As did seeing her older sister damaged and lying in a coma.
A hollowness that she couldn’t fill.
A soft cloth touched the side of her mouth; she started as though seared and looked around into eyes full of horror and sorrow. Unlike her, Christopher had fresh tears glistening on his cheeks, his face filled with the emotions she assumed she should feel. Why don’t I cry? Why don’t I feel their loss as deeply as Christopher does?
The door to their private sitting room in the critical care unit of the hospital opened and closed quietly.
Pandora's Gambit Page 23
