House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  “Tillic is a fine man, my Lord,” Steuben replied. “And yes, I am still a field agent.”

  “Tillic spoke highly of you as well,” Derrick said. “Tell me, Colonel, what is your current assignment?"

  "Rebel neutralization, my Lord," the Colonel replied, his answer in line with the Count-Grandee's instructions regarding the rebels.

  "By infiltration?" Derrick asked, not taking Steuben’s full meaning.

  "No, my Lord. My warrant involves the roving termination of rebel personnel." He watched Derrick’s mouth thin as he realized what Steuben meant: Random opportunistic killing. "It is in accordance with the Count-Grandee's orders," Steuben added at Derrick's hesitation.

  "Yes. How, uh, successful have you been?"

  "I have eliminated a few low-ranking rebels," the Colonel lied, "but no big names yet."

  "I see,” said Derrick, uncheered by Steuben’s light smile. “Well, I have an interesting new assignment for you, along the lines of the one you had with Guard Commander Tillic."

  "My Lord, I—"

  "Here," Derrick said, giving the Colonel a small cylindrical object. "Among the files in there are the bios and service records of eight HOPIS agents who once worked in this very office. They all transferred to different postings shortly after the bodies of the four Imperials were discovered, each of them dying sometime thereafter."

  Steuben paled as he drew back in his chair. These were the eight agents he had been ordered to kill, the same agents whose deaths had bought his place with the rebels. Confronted with blood he had yet to repay, he wondered why the Possór heir had brought them up now. This is Seffan's crime. Steuben fanned his resentment to absolve his guilt. This hatchling had better not expect me to take the fall for it.”

  "How might I serve, my Lord?" Steuben asked, his tone indicating concern. Do you want to make me kill more of your own men for you?

  "I want you to investigate their deaths." Derrick’s eyes looked directly into Steuben's. "Or rather, their murders."

  Steuben lifted his brow, but suppressed a rancorous smile. You dare to play coy, you suckling sonofabitch? Yet Derrick’s serious look held no mockery. Steuben's anger subsided. Henely said that Seffan ordered the agents killed. Derrick would not know of Henely's plan for Meres, but the other deaths should have held no mystery. Still, if Derrick did not know….

  "But my Lord," said the Colonel. "The First Advisor has instructed—"

  “The First Advisor? Have you received instructions from Henely?”

  “Not directly, my Lord,” Steuben lied. “But he is in the chain of command.”

  "I will take care of him," Derrick replied, seemingly satisfied with Steuben’s answer.

  Derrick’s obvious distrust of Henely caused Steuben to re-evaluate the Possór heir. Had he not given Steuben his trust so readily, he might have decided that the kid had some brains.

  "You just find out who killed them and why, and tell only me."

  Henrald Steuben observed Derrick closely, searching for a sign that the young man was engaging in some sort of artifice. It was clear though that these deaths troubled the Possór heir.

  Derrick intends to protect Meres, he concluded. My God, Rachel, Steuben thought, calling with his mind to his murdered beloved. I may have made a big mistake. Steuben's shoulders sagged with a deep exhale. If Derrick was truly not like the rest of the Possórs....

  "Yes, my Lord," Steuben replied, no longer trying to avoid the assignment, but dreading the possibility that Derrick might learn that the very man he wanted to find was sitting right in front of him. "Will that be all?"

  Derrick waited a moment before answering. "Yes, Colonel."

  Taking the cylinder Derrick had given him, Steuben rose from his chair and gave a short bow. Derrick nodded back to him.

  "Colonel," Derrick added, seeming to give in to an urge to say something more. "We look after our own..."

  "Yes, my Lord," the Colonel affirmed solemnly, blinking once before finishing an ancient military motto of his service, "...and damn the cost."

  ---

  Tillic could see the numbered door from the elevator. It was the right place. Since his meeting with Henely, he had followed several leads, and even revisited some of the contacts he had made during his earlier investigations. If the man he was about to meet did not provide him with the information he needed, however, Tillic would have to start over again.

  Reaching the apartment, the guard commander regretted not being able to save the bulk of his team from reassignment. Cursing Advisor Biam, Tillic pressed the door’s call button.

  "Commander Tillic!" the man cried, opening and then closing the door slightly.

  The guard commander listened for movement from behind the man. With the telescreen on in the background, he heard no one else. "You know me, Mr. Harfler?" Tillic asked.

  "I know of you, Commander, and your place at the Palace."

  "May I come in?"

  "I’m afraid my maid quit on me recently," Harfler replied, glancing behind him. "Perhaps we could meet downstairs somewhere? There is a tankard-house across the street."

  Tillic briefly considered the suggestion. "It’d be best to keep our discussion private," he said. "I only came because I thought you would be more comfortable talking here." Although he left the man’s alternative unvoiced, Harfler appeared quick to take his meaning.

  "Well then," Harfler began, opening wide the door, "would you like to come in?"

  Harfler’s living room was larger than expected. Entering, Tillic counted six doors out from the main room, including the clear-glass ones to the balcony. All of them were closed. "Your window has quite a view," Tillic remarked, also noting how clean the room looked.

  "Thank you, Commander," Harfler said, inviting his guest to sit as he lowered the volume of his wallscreen before making himself a drink. "Do you want one?"

  "Thank you, no," Tillic replied, accepting the offered chair and waiting for his host to take his own seat. Harfler brought a whiskey bottle with him. "Interesting," Tillic resumed. "I don’t recall ever seeing you at the Palace. You had a posting there?"

  "Briefly," Harfler answered, "during my Home Guard years."

  "You retired early, didn’t you?"

  "The Service offered me a generous incentive. And consulting positions with some of the minor houses are easy to find. The duke of Veron ultimately retained me permanently."

  Tillic nodded, having already known this. "Did you work for House Morays?" he asked, again already knowing the answer. Harfler’s face froze. “Or ever speak with Lady Morays?"

  Harfler shifted in his chair. "Not about employment."

  "But you had worked under her direction on at least one task, right?"

  "The issue of employment never came up," Harfler said, sliding his hands to the ends of his chair’s armrests and moving his legs as if readying to jump from his seat.

  "I see," Tillic said reservedly. "Let me get to the point of my visit then. You have been identified as a rebel. A member of the Assembly, no less."

  Harfler brought his glass to the sharp solid edge of the armrest. "How can you believe—what is the Assembly anyway?"

  "There’s no point in denying it," Tillic replied. "In truth, I don’t care one way or another. Sadly, having been named a rebel, the truth wouldn’t matter to the Count-Grandee either."

  Harfler’s expression sunk as he slouched in his chair. After a long inhale, Harfler raised his eyes to the guard commander, and studied him. "What is it you really want, Tillic?"

  "The Countess-Grandia," Tillic answered.

  For the first time during their conversation, Harfler drank from his glass, emptying it in one drought. Still silent, Harfler spun the ice in his glass as his eyes stared without focus.

  "Were you there?" Tillic whispered, leaning slightly forward. Harfler shook his head. "Give me something I can use," Tillic insisted, "a name, a place."

  "Why reopen your inquiry now, Tillic? How could the trial possibly—?" The man stoppe
d, silently answering his own question.

  "He needs to know," Tillic stressed, watching as the man refilled his glass from the whiskey bottle. "And I need convincing proof."

  "This sounds treasonous, Commander," said Harfler, in weak protest.

  "That may only be a question of timing," Tillic remarked.

  Harfler looked back at him. "Answering a false charge of being a rebel is one thing," he said. "Adding a valid charge of violating the Official Secrets Act is another. You have said nothing so far to lead me to believe that this is an official inquiry."

  "You know who I am," Tillic said sharply.

  "That’s not enough. I can’t discuss events which occurred—"

  "What are you hiding from?"

  "Ask who I am hiding from, and the answer should be obvious."

  "But Derrick—"

  "It’s more than a question of timing."

  "There’s someone else then. Who?"

  Harfler straightened his lips as he shook his head.

  Tillic stared at him. "Very well," the guard commander said, "I suppose I should question you about this alleged rebel connection." He looked directly into the man’s eyes. "If we are done discussing the earlier matter, we should go. I am sure HOPIS would want to have an interview regarding the rebels properly documented and recorded."

  Harfler answered by throwing his drink in the guard commander’s face and rushing to the door. Half-blinded by the sting of alcohol, Tillic leapt from his chair to give chase. He was not half way to his quarry when three men charged through two of the room’s doors.

  Rather than subdue him, the men first tried to disarm Tillic and remove his shieldbelt. Tillic met the closest man with the edge of a retractable knife sheathed to his left inner forearm, twisting away as the mortally wounded rebel clawed at his lacerated throat.

  As Tillic dealt with the first man, a second rebel knocked him from his feet. With the guard commander’s body turning as he fell, the third rebel dislodged Tillic’s lasgun from its holster before being kicked in the left temple by Tillic’s right boot and going limp.

  Tillic came down hard against a table, feeling its edge slam against the length of his back before two of its legs broke under him. Grunting from the pain, he continued his struggle with the second rebel, now fighting to take hold of his shieldbelt.

  The other man won the battle, prying Tillic’s shield generator from him before it could be activated. As the man fell back with his prize, Tillic lunged for his lost weapon. Grabbing it, he turned and fired, only to see the man had already energized his own shield. His opponent having the advantage, Tillic did the only thing left to him in the few moments that remained.

  With a blink, the guard commander reached inside to summon his psychic energy. His power gathering, Tillic forced a calm breath. There was no running now. Slowing to an almost leisurely approach, the rebel smiled as he raised his shielded arm to deliver a killing blow. Not knowing the extent of his enemy’s mental training, Tillic waited until the last possible instant before discharging a psychic blast, ready to leverage whatever distraction he might achieve.

  The guard commander did not have to bother. The moment his psychic attack made contact, Tillic knew that the other man did not have any mental defenses raised. His face frozen in an unblinking stare, the man crumpled to the ground, his consciousness seared away.

  Arching his back, Tillic flung himself to his feet. His lasgun holstered, the guard commander paused only to grab his shieldbelt and break the unconscious rebel’s neck with his heel before darting from the room. There would be no one to follow him.

  Tillic reattached his shieldbelt and activated its protective field as he reached the elevator. Two more men came at him once the elevator doors opened. Tillic killed them both with quick successive strikes to the heart and head from his shield-encased fists. Leaving the bodies as they lay, he rode down with them as he prepared again to tap his psychic power.

  The Seeking discipline involved surrendering physical control to one’s unconscious so to be guided to the object being sought. Tillic was already in the Seeker’s Trance when the elevator doors reopened and revealed the two dead bodies. Turning down his shield to increase his freedom of movement, the bloodied guard commander ignored the gasps, screams and questions of those he pushed past as he ran for the door leading to the street.

  One man grabbed Tillic as he made for his vehicle. The guard commander effortlessly subdued him, unmindful if his force had been lethal. His only thought was Franick Harfler.

  His awareness psychically heightened, Tillic needed only to touch his hovercraft to know that it had been disabled. "I commandeer this vehicle in the name of the Count-Grandee," the guard commander said as he approached a man in a nearby hovercar. His voice resonated with the added strength of the Mental Disciplines. Not waiting for a reply, he opened the door.

  The man did not argue as he scrambled to escape Tillic’s glassy-dead eyes and chilling voice. After adjusting the vehicle’s settings, the guard commander deepened his trance. His peripheral vision blurring, Tillic focused forward as he spun the vehicle around. He could feel the man he hunted, fleeing behind the buildings that now separated them. Tillic gunned the engines, throwing himself back in the seat as his hands flew over the controls.

  The guard commander registered the presence of people in front of him from a corner of his awareness. Flipping a switch as he increased power, he jumped his craft over them. Several people were knocked to the ground by the vehicle’s brief use of a suspensor field, but Tillic’s eyes remained locked in the direction of his quarry.

  Another hovercar crossed his path. Tillic darted around it and accelerated to beat another car through the intersection traveling in the opposite direction. Turning his hovercar again, he left the roadway and cut across a small city park, dodging obstacles as he banked right to left.

  His vision narrowed. He was tiring. Sparks flew as another vehicle sliced alongside the craft. Tillic knocked another vehicle to the side to avoid a collision. Then he saw his target.

  Sensing Tillic’s approach, Harfler increased speed as he turned into an alleyway. The maneuver was beyond his ability to control. Clipping a parked car on the inside of his sharp turn, Harfler’s vehicle went wide, slamming into a building and ricocheting into another. Nearing the alleyway, Tillic spun the hovercar and brought its engines to full power to balance its momentum. The vehicle slowing sufficiently, he pulled into the alleyway and stopped.

  Harfler dangled halfway out of the twisted, smoldering vehicle, bloodied and unmoving. Tillic jumped from his craft and rushed forward, ignoring the sharp, jagged debris littering the area. Pinned within the crushed vehicle, the man was breathing, but would not be for long. Crouching next to him, Tillic raised both hands to the man’s head, coursing what energy he had left to keep the man alive for a few moments more.

  "Franick Harfler," Tillic said, sending his thoughts to the man’s dimming awareness. Having neither the knowledge nor the strength to scan the man’s mind for the information he sought, the guard commander knew that he had one last chance to convince the man to talk.

  "Harfler," Tillic repeated. "Tell me what I need to know—what Derrick needs to know. Please. You must."

  The man’s eyes opened, looking directly into Tillic’s. Blood fell from his parting lips.

  "No," Tillic heard in his mind. "I have sworn."

  "You’re dying," Tillic responded, shaking with the effort to keep in contact with the man. "Henely can’t do anything to you now."

  "Henely?" The word wavered in Tillic’s mind.

  "It was Henely who had me find you." Harfler’s eyes lost focus. Frantic, Tillic boosted his psychic energy, transferring all he had left. This time he received only images...

  Harfler was in a darkened corridor when he saw the body of a guard sprawled on the floor. He stepped forward to investigate, only to be pulled back by someone behind him. Henely whispered something to him before releasing him. Looking back, Harfler saw the Cou
nt-Grandee calmly walk past the body. In his hand was a long, narrow knife.

  The images ended as Tillic collapsed next to the now dead man. Focusing his thoughts to remain conscious, Tillic closed his eyes as he rallied his strength. He needed to get away from the vehicle. Blinded by the delirium of utter exhaustion, Tillic felt someone lift him to his feet and take him from the scene of the wreckage.

  Through the fog of his thoughts, however, Tillic kept one image frozen: The blade in Seffan’s hand. The blade he knew like an old nemesis. It was the blade that had killed the Countess-Grandia.

  ---

  "So Tillic persists, does he?" Lord Legan asked as he signed another document.

  "Yes, Sire," replied Advisor Rouher, whose predecessor Seffan had unofficially "dismissed" two days before. Despite supporting recommendations, Seffan was still unsure about the new woman's appointment. "And though he says he's after rebel assassins,” the new Advisor continued, “I think he's obsessed with Duke Burin's accident." She glanced at Biam standing across from her, but he offered no encouragement. "And then there's that groundcar chase he had in downtown Carran."

  Yes, thought Seffan, with the supposed rebel terrorist killed along with five others. Carefully the Count-Grandee put his stylus down and looked up at the wall as the images of dying rebels drifted through his thoughts.

  He never believed Bishop Wyren's story that a rogue rebel unit had turned the Galleston protest into an uprising. But with the trial at hand, he could only press the NDB bishop so hard, having already squeezed from him the identities of six top rebel leaders as a reparation. As for the matter of smuggling in arms shipments however...

  I will deal with them later, the Count-Grandee decided. With the increased threat of Pax Imperator not far from his mind, Seffan knew there could be no more "accidents" for a while.

  Besides, Wyren will not dare do anything further for now.

  Seffan pushed himself away from his desk and leaned back in his chair, once more thinking about the over-inquisitive guard commander.