“The preparations are made. I have only to give the signal.”
“Do it then. The longer this trial lasts, the more difficult the wife will be to handle.”
“Very well. I do feel for Duke Burin though. Pity. He really does love her, you know.”
Chais Wyren laughed, stood up and walked away. Catching a look from the NDB bishop’s aide, Henely again wondered where he might have seen the man before.
---
Taniell Kamarin sat at the same table where the mission had been approved, absently tapping her fingers on the dull surface. Like all the other surviving co-conspirators in the room, her eyes meet no one, and her thoughts were on friends and comrades lost at Galleston.
That bastard killed them all.
Kamarin grappled with the reality of it even as ghastly images repeated in her mind: unrelenting lasgun fire...people with holes in them, people sliced to pieces...explosions, smoke and mass confusion...soldiers advancing, rebels and civilians trampling one other in doomed efforts to flee...shouted orders, screams of pain and pleas for mercy...seared remains of the dead and dying strewn everywhere—all scenes that did not make the evening newscast.
Even the Assembly found the totality of their failure difficult to accept. In just seconds, Kamarin's trumpeted plans were reduced to ashes on Galleston's downtown streets. Along with Lenalt's rise in the rebel leadership. That government troops were already waiting when the retrieval team came to claim the contents of Admiral Neider’s computer was only a minor point. If protestors in the other cities had not withdrawn, the massacre would have spanned the planet.
"And he sits down afterwards to a nice, comfortable family dinner," Lenalt Depré mused.
"What?" Kamarin asked, not following his unspoken thoughts.
"Nothing," Depré assured her. "Steuben just better get here. He has a lot to answer for."
"We lost nearly everyone," Kamarin agreed, feeling the loss of Annika Lerle most especially. She had trained Kamarin as group leader, as she had trained Nolan before her. By any measure, Annika had been a good friend and a dedicated fighter. Kamarin wiped her eyes as she remembered Annika’s last words to her, spoken in that very room only a day before.
"This is it for me, Taniell. One more adventure, and this old lady heads back to the hills."
I’m sure the mountains where you grew up are lovely this time of year, Annika...
"Not only that," Depré added, tilting his head to look at Kamarin from the side, "the presence of soldiers underground could only mean one thing: We were betrayed."
"And slaughtered," she breathed, then shivered. "Who knew the countling had it in him?"
Despite knowing that the room’s dampening field was on, Depré spoke to Kamarin in a low voice. "With them doing this, do you still have doubts?" Neither of them knew how to employ telepathy.
"Getting rid of Seffan's one thing," Kamarin whispered, understanding his reference. "But trying to overthrow the entire—"
"Derrick's proven that he is the same. You think his becoming grandee will change—?"
"This is not about that sonofabitch Derrick!" she said hoarsely, her tension making it difficult to speak. “I would take all the Possórs down. We always knew that something like that might be necessary to bring about the social change that we are after.”
“But is it enough now to simply exchange one ruling House for another?” he countered. “Even a benign autocrat is still a tyrant.”
"Our people don't want a full-scale revolution,” said Kamarin, “let alone a confrontation with the Empire." Taniell had faced the truth long ago: To the average citizen, this system of government is no worse than anything they could offer. Revolutions only change the aristocracy. She shook her head, putting her doubts aside. "Your plan is a much bigger step than simply—"
"What choice is there?" Depré insisted. "The government's sure to clamp down on us further. Derrick might try to finish us off just to save himself more trouble later. You said that even the Assembly is worried. They all thought his father was insane."
Studying Lenalt's face, Taniell hesitated. Depré stared at her as the expression that had caught her attention faded. "You just want revenge," she said, uncomfortable with the way he had looked at her. She wondered if it was really sadness.
"What if I do?" Depré asked venomously, his face growing hard again. "Our people deserve to be avenged."
"You can't kill them all," she said, considering what Galleston had really meant to Depré. Lenalt’s obsession had grown since his brother Nolan had died. Dispelling the memory of the night government troops had raided Nolan’s home, she realized that even the sight of a Possór uniform was enough to put Lenalt on edge.
Yet what about my feelings? she wondered, comparing the apparent strength of Depré’s conviction with her own. I miss Nolan sometimes, but have I ever really mourned him?
Thinking on her time with the rebels to further her lover's dream, Taniell considered what her life would be like when she left. She knew the years had changed her, as much as she might wish otherwise. Still, how could she regret fighting for those in need with so many living in poverty? So many reduced to begging for what they should have by right?
Maybe once I am free, and Lenalt is in place...
"I may not have to," Depré replied, having silently regarded Kamarin as she momentarily lost herself in thought.
Taniell's large, pale eyes returned from a far away vista.
Their eyes meeting, Lenalt reached up tenderly. Kamarin pulled back as his hand neared her face. Depré stopped with a forestalled breath, his fingers collapsing as she stepped away.
The rebel standing guard readied her weapon as one of their comrades rushed through the door. "Our absent Colonel's left word with a runner," the man said, his urgency tinged with disdain. "Supposedly Steuben's on assignment, and can't get away. He says he'll contact us as soon as he can."
Depré's was one of the few faces not souring at the news.
Instead, Kamarin saw him smile.
"So in his guilt he flees," Depré said, rising to his feet. "I think it is time we go hunting."
---
IX
The arena crowd gave a hearty cheer. The blue team had not only captured the ball, one player had delivered a savage head-blow to a member of the red team, whose personal shield had faltered. Play continued as two teammates hurriedly took the man off the court. Retrieving their fallen comrade was the only way one of their other players on the bench could join the game.
In “Rammerang,” where two teams of body-armored players were also equipped with half-shields, suspensor-field generators with boosted accelerators, for aerial and added ground mobility, and a heavy baton for maneuvering the ball, and opposing players, scoring was not easy. Getting the ball through one of the rings at either side of the court was only the first part. Other players could still block the ball’s descent into the scorebox, with whatever was at hand, and push it up the corkscrew scoring track and back out through the ring. In such a chaotic and brutal game, one winning tactic was simply to eliminate the opposing team one player at a time.
Dimly visible within an unlit penalty box converted for his use, Lord Ketrick, the blue team’s patron, clapped dutifully, while others jumped and cheered in support of another violent play. A noble was expected to show refinement and restraint, but in truth, Ketrick had no need to monitor his enthusiasm. His sole reason for attending was to meet an emissary of NDB, Bishop Chais Wyren. The game itself held interest only as a possible bragging point, should the subject arise at a later cocktail gathering.
Ketrick glanced about the arena. With nearly every seat full, he could not have chosen a more public place to meet. Yet even with his guards, he felt exposed. New Dawn Believers seemed to be poking up everywhere these days. Some were even permitted to disavow their faith, and underwent special psychic conditioning, just to avoid detection as secret servants of their ever scheming and enigmatic church.
But surely they would no
t attack me here, he thought.
“The messenger has arrived, my Lord,” came a voice through the com-link in Ketrick’s ear. Ketrick nodded as he clapped at his team’s first goal, the first goal in the game. Taking the scoring player’s salute as the man made a triumphal lap around the court, Ketrick smiled. The blue team just might win this game.
The young woman who sat next to him wore a black dress more befitting an after-dinner party than a sporting event, but the more casually attired Ketrick did not mind. Let people think that he dallied with expensive prostitutes on occasion. He was yet a bachelor, and to him such talk would only enhance his reputation in the minds of those who mattered.
“Ah, there you are,” Ketrick said as he activated an anti-surveillance field within the converted penalty box. The woman looked to be under the influence of a narcotic, but he knew the true reason for her vacant expression. Having taken over her awareness, Bishop Wyren was psychically controlling the woman remotely. So cautious, Ketrick thought, and untrusting.
“Good evening, Lord Ketrick,” the woman replied thickly, the muscles of her mouth lax. After this, Ketrick figured that she would be lucky to wake up with her mind still intact.
“I must say, Bishop,” Ketrick began, “had I known that you had such pretty temple-workers, I might have been tempted to join your church years ago.” Smiling, he returned his gaze to the game. Another member of the red team was being taken away with injuries.
“You wished to talk,” Wyren replied through the woman. Her eyes blinked mechanically. “I am listening.” The NDB Bishop’s evident annoyance made Ketrick smile.
“Anios recently retired one of your ‘Church Security’ operatives.” Ketrick referred to the planetary Consortium head by his first name, expecting Wyren to know him. “He came to me knowing the man’s fraternal association, but the man was not on any assignment from me.”
“Are you looking for an affirmation or a denial? I am happy to give you either.”
“How about an agreement to curtail your spy missions for a while? I have certain operations going on which are sensitive to heightened scrutiny. I would rather that Anios not be constantly looking over his shoulder right now.”
“Certain operations? Anything we can help you with?”
“Are you not busy enough with the rebels?”
“Rebels?”
Ketrick sighed. He had thought the bishop wanted to dispense with the game playing. “What will it take for you to rein in your infiltration efforts temporarily?”
“What are you offering?”
“Our continued silence on the identity of the Hidden NDB currently placed high within the Possór government.” Wyren opened the woman’s mouth to speak, but Ketrick cut her off. “And don’t bother with any denials. I’ll name him here and now, if you like.”
“The identity of your highly-placed man in government is known as well, Lord Ketrick,” the woman said evenly.
“Fortunately for us, the Count-Grandee views membership in my club as a less serious security matter than membership in yours.”
“You are treading on dangerous ground.” The woman’s blank look gave the deep-voiced warning a twisted edge.
“And I should not have to. I understand that you probably have an inexhaustible supply of followers. You should understand though that I do not. My people have value to me.”
“Your people,” Wyren scoffed. “And what if ‘your people’ are soon to be my people too? Or should I ask, ‘What if “your people” are already my people?’”
Ketrick stiffened. It was no secret that more NDB were entering the Brotherhood’s ranks, and that Wyren’s influence within the organization was growing. But was the question a calculated boast, or a simple sign of the NDB bishop’s personal disregard? Damn this man, Ketrick thought, facing his unspoken fear. And damn his arrogance.
A score by the red team filled the momentary silence.
“Not all of them are yours,” Ketrick said finally. “Some of our Brothers uphold their word, and stay true to honor and loyalty.”
“And you think the men of the True Church do not?”
“How can they, when you bind them to obedience and then have them swear falsely to others? You are a fool to trust men whose integrity is so easily negotiated, even if it is you who created the lever by which their honor is swayed.”
“Honor is the final refuge of a man who is beaten. It has no place while the battle still wages. Are you done fighting then, Lord Ketrick?”
Ketrick did not reply, glad that Wyren did not truly sit next to him to fully gauge his reaction. What would he do if the NDB gained full control of the DuCideon Brotherhood? Would he really stop fighting them? Or would he battle on, even if it meant losing everything?
“Your church is still widely suppressed by the Legan’s regional lords,” said Ketrick. “You still lack the power to name my fraternal successor. You have yet to win.”
“But we will win. That is what you fear. You fear us. You fear me.”
“I loathe you. It is not the same.”
“You cannot even meet me in person. You think that I might possess you, as I did this stupid call girl taken from the streets surrounding your own castle, and you are right to be wary.”
“Meeting this way serves your purposes as well. I am not the one who requires a personal security escort which rivals that of the Count-Grandee.”
“A public show attesting to my status. Do you think I need it? The Sacred Teachings of the True Church give me powers for which those children in ‘Holy Orders’ dare not dream.”
“Still needing to convince yourself of your superiority over the Miran idolaters, huh? Now who is showing weakness?”
“Your overtures to them, by the way, are for naught. Even if they could, the Mirans would never help you to identify our Believers within your beloved DuCideon Brotherhood.”
Ketrick breathed. “Where does that leave us regarding Tenatte and his people?”
“Back to business then. I will tell you this: the mutual accommodation you have between yourself and the Consortium will soon end. Tenatte is not long for this world.”
“So, the NDB Church will add another assassination to its list of accomplishments?”
“Your Consortium-friend should worry more about enemies within than without. The regional ‘bosses’ tire of Tenatte’s continued meddling in their operations. One particular boss will soon have the support he needs from the others to have Tenatte removed.”
“You are mistaken if you believe that I prefer Tenatte where he is because I like him.”
“I only mention this to give you an idea of what our agents uncover for us, the agents you want us to withdraw.”
“The aims of an ambitious crime boss are easily divined. Tell me how Tenatte and the Council of Underlords plan to exploit Seffan’s coming trial, and maybe I will be impressed.”
“Tenatte has ordered a temporary hold on the expansion of Consortium operations here on Legan. He has also forbidden ‘provocative’ actions of any kind without prior approval. There is an opportunity here for you, Lord Ketrick, to advance the DuCideon position.”
“And to be caught in the legal snares meant for the Consortium.”
“No one suggests you act recklessly. If your contacts within the Possór government, or amongst the Imperials, provide inadequate protection for your activities, there are always ours.”
“Much would have to happen before I would become indebted to you, Bishop Wyren.”
“Who says you are not indebted already? Like you, I report to others. You believe we mean to seize the DuCideon Brotherhood. Is it hard to imagine that some want it done quickly?”
“So, the True Church does engage in assassinations.”
“Never. But our members do enjoy Our Father’s gift of free will.”
“Were I a vain man, I might take pride in being so great a threat as to move one of your godly believers to cold-blooded murder. For now though, can I assume that given that the Consortiu
m is currently laying low, you have no present need to inundate it with spies?”
“Uncovering what those other operations you mentioned entail does sound interesting.”
“Good idea. In the meantime, I might even come up with some more secrets for you to ferret out, just to keep things interesting.”
At that moment, the crowd roared. With the loss of yet another player to injury, the red team had forfeited the game.
“Isn’t it wonderful, my dear bishop?” Ketrick said, looking away. “We won.”
“Your team has yet to meet our team, Lord Ketrick,” the woman said hazily.
Caught by the odd inflection in her voice, Ketrick turned toward the woman just as she fell forward in her seat. Cradling her head as he pulled her back, he felt for a nonexistent pulse.
All around them the crowd continued to cheer.
---
Commander Manus Tillic stood ready at the designated place: a small access road within a minor industrial sector. His people had taken positions around him, but remained hidden, covertly monitoring the nearby traffic. While the intermediary had told him to be alone, Tillic had no intention of leaving himself that exposed.
And now the wait, Tillic thought. He had not expected the meeting to start on time, but he still hoped not to be made to stand outside in the heat and humidity for too long.
All part of the drill, I suppose, he continued, musing on the meeting’s late-night scheduling, the deserted and dilapidated location, and the "no weapons" requirement.
But this time it was different. They wanted to talk to him.
Tillic narrowed his eyes, remembering part of the cryptic message he received, the part that convinced him to agree to the meeting: "We have information relevant to your investigation. There is more for him to know than just about the four." At first, the message both alerted and angered him. It not only indicated that the senders knew Tillic was on leave from the Palace and why, it also suggested they knew the old guard commander's motivation in pursuing his inquiry.
To Tillic, the deaths of the four Imperial special agents were more than just a part of the long list of charges against the Count-Grandee. He knew they had a greater significance. His instincts told him that much. What they would not tell him was the reason.
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