“I’m here,” he said, rounding the corner and entering one of the larger rooms, where Lorenzo stood with Franco, a member of the Old Guard. Franco was an athletic sixty-something with a thick mane of gray hair, and would probably have been the next leader of the Bok if it hadn’t been for Lorenzo’s bloodless coup. The two men were alone. Fire raged in a giant pit at one side of the archaic room, casting hard orange light over everything, giving a subtle shimmer to it all. Shadows danced on every surface.
Hansel took a deep breath. He liked the castle. The Bok built this one long ago, as they had built others, maintaining it in their possession through the ages, across changing governments and legal institutions, kept, on the interior at least, in fantastic shape. Tapestries draped the walls, ancient wooden furniture here and there. This particular room had a vast, Moorish rug covering the center. Hansel continued over and stood on it, near Lorenzo.
“You’ve heard everything, I’m sure,” Lorenzo held a glass with a red liquid in it. It wasn’t wine. In addition to whatever bizarre, psychic manifestations he and his so-called New Bok (or as Hansel liked to call them, “Rude Bok”) cultivated, they also took enhancement drugs and drank and consumed rare foods and plants, all in the name of ultimately honed physical perfection. Despite how much he despised them, Hansel had to admit they were all in great shape. And their powers … those were quite real.
He nodded. “There’ve been a lot of raised voices.”
“I didn’t get to see much of this super warrior,” said Lorenzo, “but he went down easily enough in the club. He and that girl chased me all the way to the farmhouse. I have no idea how they followed me. Their bike went off the road. I saw them crash.” Even after all the intervening hours Hansel could see Lorenzo was shaken. “Whoever that guy is he came to the farm and ... I can’t speak for the girl, but when I left he was shredding us like some kind of super freak.” Suddenly he snapped. “Dammit!” he threw his glass across the room into the fire, where it popped with a muffled crash.
Franco spoke: “You can’t ignore this,” he said, earnest. He and Lorenzo had been arguing. “She is the One. Our priestess said one would come. You cannot deny this is her.”
“I can and I will!” Lorenzo shouted at him. “False hope! Our priestess could not see the future! That witch caused our troubles! Why would I pay attention to anything she said now? There is no ‘One’, and this girl certainly is not it!”
“Then why do you seek her?!” Franco had fire of his own.
“Because she knows something! She had that damn suit of armor! She took both devices back in the States and popped out of existence! She crashed our raid on the Americans with something we’ve never seen, took our property—that technology is ours!—and—poof. Gone. So where are they? I want to know what she knows!
“Now she shows up here—of all places!—chases me with that freak of a bodyguard, raids our land and, as far as we know, kills everyone. I want answers!” He turned to Hansel and Hansel suppressed an involuntary swallow. “And you’re going to get them. Go to the farm, kill that freak and bring me the girl. Don’t let her get away. Kill her if you have to but don’t let her get away.”
Franco looked alarmed. “You can’t kill her!”
Lorenzo ignored him. “If they’re not there find them. If they’re gone track them down. I don’t care how.”
Franco had other fears. “If they’ve found the vault—”
“No one’s found the vault!” Lorenzo was clearly fed up with the elder Bok and his resistance. “Even if they do find the vault there’s no way for them to get in. And even if they did get in,” he seemed to consider the possibility, a slight worry passing across his expression, and as it did Hansel began to wonder just how strong this super warrior could possibly be, if Lorenzo thought there was a chance, however slight, he could break into a vault with a multi-ton door and three-inch-thick bars, but Lorenzo was finishing his thought: “it doesn’t matter. The real prize is not there. They’re looking for ancient Kel technology. Looking for us. They have no idea the treasures we hold, and they’re not even close.” His demeanor morphed in the firelight, closer to his usual, haughty self. If Hansel didn’t know how real, how fantastic the Bok truly were, it would be easy to dismiss Lorenzo’s cryptic statement as delusional hubris.
But the Bok were for real.
Hansel, however, was more interested in the immediate. “I have only two choppers on site and about a dozen commandoes. Are you saying you want a raid on the farm? Tonight?”
“I’m saying I want him dead!” Lorenzo directed his impatience at Hansel. Hansel bristled. “Go there! Find him! Kill him! Now! It couldn’t be more simple!”
“If this freak killed the others,” Hansel refused to be cowed, “then how strong is he? Can he be killed?” Much as he hated them, the young Bok that had been killed on the farm—if they’d been killed—were no minor threat. If one man killed them all …
“Everyone can be killed!” Lorenzo was beside himself. “I have no idea how strong he is, but when you find him you shred him with everything you’ve got. Understood?”
Hansel glared at him. He would do it, of course. It was his job. But he did not have to respect the man giving the command.
“Save the girl,” Franco added his own order to the mix and Lorenzo whirled on him. Now it was Franco’s turn to wither before the young Bok’s murderous stare, Lorenzo glowering, contemplating something terrible. He turned back to Hansel.
“Kill the freak. Bring me the girl. Kill her if you can’t.” He looked back and forth between Franco and Hansel. The blazing fire crackled and popped. “I’m going to Cairo,” he announced, and started across the room.
Franco watched him go, boring holes into his back. “Cairo!” Hansel wondered if the elder Bok would give chase. His fury was peaking. “Cairo! You’ve issues to deal with here!” Lorenzo kept walking, not looking back. Franco accused: “You’ve done this! Your greed has exposed us!” Lorenzo didn’t turn. He was almost gone. “Now the Prophet is here!” Franco shouted. “She walks among us, yet you intend to kill her! You encourage it! We are a thousand years old! Forty generations of Esehta Bok!” Lorenzo reached the corner, not slowing. Not caring. “This is the sign! You will single-handedly bring about our ruin!”
The impetuous young Bok rounded the corner, still not looking back, and as he passed from sight into the dark hallway beyond said simply, voice coming to them as an echo:
“Shut up, old man.”
* *
It was the dream again. Jess stepped across the room, explosions rocking the floor; went to the archaic wooden door set against the riveted green-iron walls. Beside it was the sleek, high-tech access panel.
As before she played things through, working in some subtle way to take control. The door was covered in complicated runes that, she was now convinced, were written in the same language as those from the Reaver. It was the language of the Kel.
The battle outside rocked the walls. Gunfire, lots of it. More than before. Another big blast and she steadied herself. She was dressed in the same armor, in one hand the long, curved sword of blued steel. It was she that held the sword. She that wore the armor. But she was not Jessica. Not a girl from Boise.
Someone else.
But who?
Mind racing, she studied the shiny access panel and had the idea to look. Slowly she bent to the panel until she could see …
Her reflection.
At the sight of it she gasped and pulled back.
Not me at all.
Only …
It is me.
Carefully she leaned in for a closer look. So vivid! The image before her was shocking but she held steady and looked herself over. Face strikingly beautiful, barely human …
Kel.
She was Kel. It was her own eyes she peered into. Brilliant yellow, almond-shaped eyes, wide in shock at her own apparition. Staring back in disbelief. Jaw and cheeks a collection of angular perfection, slightly pointed ears peeking from a
wild tangle of shock-white hair.
It was like wearing a mask. Like looking at herself in a mirror while she wore a perfect, face-hugging mask.
But this was no mask.
Who am I? Her image was youthful, though as she stared into the reflection of her eyes she felt far older than her current sixteen years. In fact, looking into the depths of those golden orbs she could’ve been a thousand.
Like a mage.
A few thin, dark symbols, traced precise lines around her left eye, a few more along her right cheek. Inhumanly gorgeous. A pure, flawless being, beyond any human standard.
Like an angel.
All this she saw in an instant, heart racing as an explosion spiked the air and hammered her …
Awake.
She sat bolt upright. Struggling for breath.
She was in bed.
BOOM! another explosion. That one was real. Orange light flared in the room, a fireball outside the window that sent her diving off the far side. She hit the floor and rolled, fighting all at once to get her bearings.
What’s going on?!
A cool breeze blew through the open window, an acrid tang drifting in with it. There was a haze in the air. After the flash of the fireball the room was dark again, it was still night, though as her eyes adjusted she could see the sharp, flickering light of flames raging outside, casting harsh shadows across the walls. Sound now, a forest fire of some sort, cracking and popping loudly outside in the yard.
She rose and ran. Staying low, out of the room, feet thumping the carpeted wood floor as she sprinted for the stairs at the far end of the hall, hoping there was some natural explanation for this but not believing there could be. She almost screamed for Zac but wasn’t sure that was a good idea yet. She made the stairs and flew to the bottom, tagging only three before she hit the floor in the foyer and took cover, eyes darting in every direction.
The light of the huge fire outside dominated through the front windows and the milky panes of the front door. The size of it definitely matched the volume.
She was panting. Where’s Zac?! With a second’s more hesitation she hurried to the front door, skidded up against it, stood to the side behind the frame and … opened it. Slowly. Sounds flooded through the crack. Cautiously she leaned her head around, opened the door wider and stuck it all the way out, peering into the chaos outside in the yard …
She felt her mouth go slack.
Across the way, on the hill, sat two military helicopters, burning. One on its side, nearly upside down, blades snapped. The other burning more furiously but upright, four-bladed rotors drooping, flames consuming everything. Both were mere shells of what they must’ve been. Gutted. She didn’t recognize the model but could tell they were medium-sized troop transports, configured for military use. Her mind tried to place them and she marveled at the fact she was even doing so. Smoke blanketed everything, shifting, capturing the orange lick of the flames, enhancing it, transforming the dark field into a localized version of Hell. She saw bodies now. Sprawled in unnatural poses, visible in the fire, silhouetted in the shells of the choppers; other lumps in the shadows or off in the darkness, littering the field.
Suddenly she noticed two on the ground not far from where she stood. Uncomfortably close.
“Jessica.”
She screamed.
“It’s me,” Zac walked out of the smoky shadows.
She looked at him in shock, in horror. He walked up and just stood there, wearing nothing but the torn suit pants, looking no different than when she last saw him at dinner.
She struggled to speak.
“We were attacked,” he said.
“… Who?” It was a stupid question.
“I’m pretty sure they were sent by the Bok.” He looked over the field of destruction. Stated the obvious: “It got messy.”
Jessica’s head was on a swivel, looking; spotting more dead people. She saw them now more clearly. Commandos in Kevlar armor, assault rifles, helmets—the works. These guys would’ve done a SEAL team proud.
Suddenly she wondered if they were. “You’re sure they were bad guys?” What if Zac had just killed a bunch of Spanish or American special forces?
But Zac had no doubts. “When they landed I walked up with my hands over my head and they started shooting. Jumped out as fast as they could and lit me up. Opened fire and kept coming. I made no sudden moves, did nothing to provoke them. Even gave them a second to reconsider.
“Their intent was clearly to kill me.”
She could see the hard set to his jaw. If Lorenzo sent them … surely they must’ve had some idea what they were in for. But they wouldn’t have known the extent of Zac’s strength. Could not have. Even after that day, after Zac killed them en masse, how could they know? She looked over the field of dead. More Bok mercenaries, just like back in Boise.
Zac was unscathed. Still she scanned him, finding no marks. She’d seen him shot before and knew there would be none. It was obviously a quick battle. She looked over the remains. He’d made short work of this little assault force. Fires still burned mightily in the choppers and she wondered if anything had yet to explode, adding to the inferno.
As if in response to her thoughts …
BOOOM! a small fireball erupted within one. She cringed and ducked but this time didn’t scream. Smaller bursts followed, going off in a rat-tat-tat staccato as a box of bullets caught fire. She felt a hand on her shoulder and Zac was guiding her inside. Next thing she knew they were standing within the relative quiet of the dark foyer, door closed, Zac before her.
“Are you okay?” he asked. First things first.
She nodded. She wasn’t, really, but she nodded anyway.
He was willing to take that and move on. Clearly their hand had been forced.
He looked into her eyes. “You need to see something.”
CHAPTER 40: THE VAULT
“So we think it’s actual psionics?” It was exactly as they feared.
“If our captive can be believed.” The agent in charge of the interrogation briefed Drake in the front room, sharing what they’d found so far with everyone present. “And I think he can. He’s become very candid in the last half-hour. He’s verified other points we can confirm independently.”
Drake nodded. This was the first time they had an actual Bok in custody, not simply one of the Bok hires or mercenaries. Which meant it was the first time they had one to question. One of the elite, if Lorenzo’s own propaganda meant anything, and so far this “elite” captive seemed to be buckling under the Project’s interrogation techniques, no different than any other mere human.
“And he doesn’t exhibit the same abilities? Why isn’t he using them? Why not knock you down and break free?”
The agent shrugged. “A few times it looked like he was concentrating, trying something, but he’s so constrained, so jacked up on the drug cocktail we’ve given him—if he does possess any psychic power he hasn’t been able to use it. Maybe they have to move their arms.” The agent shrugged again. “At any rate, he’s too far gone now to try.”
Drake sighed. “So we don’t know how Lorenzo did it, only that he can. At least from what we saw. And that this guy back there,” he nodded toward the rear of the house, “claims he can too.”
The agent nodded.
Drake turned to Bobby. “Get me everything we know on psionic experiments. Anything we’ve proven. Psychic manifestations, whatever.”
Bobby turned to go. Just then another agent came forward from the back room, the chief interrogator’s assistant, sleeves rolled up, signs of having been at his unpleasant task.
“We just got something else,” he reported as he entered. All eyes went to him and he announced: “One of the Bok hideouts. Up in the hills, not far from here.
“It’s a castle.”
* *
A chill was in the early morning air. Jess had pulled on a pair of overalls from the closet, over the farmer’s shirt, cinched them at the waist with a fat leather belt,
rolled the legs up to mid-calf and now walked across the yard following Zac. The rising sun lit the sky from below. She followed in silence.
Echoes of the dream flickered hauntingly across her mind’s eye. Would not be still. So vivid, now more than ever, the vision of herself in the reflective panel, looking for all the world … no, not just looking, being …
Kel.
Who am I?!
The dream made no sense; was pure fantasy, yet …
Zac led her toward the large, barn-like outbuilding, and though she tried to dismiss the dreamscape imagery she could not stop the flashbacks. As before it felt too real. Too unlike a dream. Too tied up in the events of the world all around her, a memory that had no clear connection but that was, nevertheless, authentic.
She trudged along. Working on forgetting.
A cool mist hugged the ground, grass damp with dew, smoke drifting across the field from the fires of earlier. Little flames still flickered in the blackened hulks of the helicopters, their giant, ugly forms blighting the lush green yard, but otherwise the rage of the inferno was gone.
She and Zac walked on in silence, grass scrunching beneath their feet, dew so heavy it soaked her skin all the way to her ankles. It was a beautiful, tranquil morning, marred only by the carnage of the earlier events; dead bodies lying in sight, men in helmets and soft armor twisted at unnatural angles. As Zac neared the barn most of that passed from her peripheral view and all she could see were the old vineyards far ahead, overgrown and untended, sloping away to a deep, miles-wide valley, bordered on all sides by majestic, soaring peaks. Thick morning mist laying like a low cloud over it all. If she tried, from that vantage she could almost imagine a morning on the farm, in its heyday, people awake and going about the business of the day. She was certainly dressed the part, a barefoot farm girl in overalls, out to milk the cows or otherwise start the morning with chores. An old tractor sat rusting to one side as they rounded the corner and Zac led her to the barn’s large entry doors. At that point a few of the Bok sports cars came into view. Various colors of high-end machines, standing out like sore thumbs against the rustic backdrop. Zac pushed aside one of the barn’s tall, sliding doors and entered.
Star Angel: Dawn of War (Star Angel Book 3) Page 43
