by Amber Jayne
“Leave?” another said. A bolder one, growing more brazen with outrage. “We most certainly will not leave.”
“My Toplux,” said the third, “these issues must be resolved if we are to—”
Suddenly Aphael Chav found himself on his feet. “Get out! Get out of here!” His voice rang down the long, stony chamber. He felt his eyes blazing in his skull. His hands became fists at his sides, trembling with fury.
It was a sufficient display. The three members vacated their chairs and scurried away toward the doors at the far end. That wouldn’t be the end of it but at the moment Aphael didn’t give a damn.
The aide too had wisely vanished. The Toplux stood alone with the news that the dramatic and costly operation to locate Virge Temple had failed. He had ordered it personally. She was mixed up in Urna’s escape. He knew it, as absolutely as he knew that the sun would rise over the Safe tomorrow. The fugitive Weapon needed his drugs and would have needed to raid a lab to get them. By now this must have occurred. Thus, all laboratories within a thirty mile radius had been investigated.
It had yielded nothing but a few minor illegal recreational narcotic rings.
Then had come word of two men in a repair truck assaulting a Guard at a town’s border crossing. The truck was recovered ten miles outside the town limits. The same town where Virge Temple lived. The Guard in question described one assailant as having long hair, silver in color. Urna. Urna had been there. Either Virge was covering up a theft of drugs from her lab or she had abetted the Weapon directly. Aphael wanted her questioned. Seriously questioned. He’d even ordered her lab destroyed just to drive the point grimly home. He wanted the truth about Urna’s whereabouts. Virge Temple would supply that information, enough for the Guard to track him at least.
But the Guard hadn’t even managed to find Virge herself!
“Damn you, child!” he shouted now, and again his words reverberated furiously.
He’d had an entire town turned inside out but somehow she’d eluded him. What made it all so much worse was the fact that he himself had ordered her release just a few nights ago. He’d thought it better, at the time, not to distract the Guard from their search for Urna. Well, that had certainly come around to bite him on the ass.
Virge. Virge.
Something like sorrow took sudden and unexpected grip of him. He had done so much for her, even though he was also responsible for her sterilization, which he had ordered when she was still a teen. He hadn’t wanted her to breed, didn’t wish the line to continue. He had seen what descendants of powerful personages degenerated into in the form of the Lux themselves. He didn’t want that to happen. But he had taken pains to see that Virge received an exceptional education. Quite some finesse had been employed to steer her into the field of chemistry. He had seen that her instructors at an early age subtly encouraged her toward the sciences.
She was an intelligent person. Naturally she was.
It felt like…betrayal. Realizing this, Aphael was able to bring himself under control at last. He drew a long breath. Virge Temple was a fugitive now as well.
“Damn you, child,” he repeated, muttering it weakly this time. He brooded for a few minutes, considering his next necessary step. He had to have Urna back. And he wanted Virge found. Both individuals must be receiving help—presuming the two weren’t traveling together by now. If they had support, the Toplux would find the pair through these abettors.
Finally his decision was made. He saw the great risk he would be taking. This might end in catastrophe. But he was the most powerful individual in the Safe. It was time to demonstrate just what that meant.
* * * * *
Virge Temple had freedom of movement—within the town’s limits at least, despite that the midnight curfew had come. There was a great deal of hubbub and bustle as various Guard units withdrew.
It was once again strange to see the town at night, though this time she felt assured—or close to assured, anyway—that no one would hassle her, that no patrolling Guard would arrest her for curfew violation. She was one of them and passed unseen. The uniform that Yola Skott’s friend had provided was perfectly convincing, it seemed. That friend lived in the same rambling building as she. He was also active in the local theater scene, which was much more extensive than Virge had ever suspected. In fact, a kind of guerrilla theater existed in the town, secret subversive productions enacted at private venues. Usually somebody’s basement, Yola had explained. Often these shows were farcical in nature, making brutal fun of the Lux and the Guard and anybody else in authority. Costumes were called for. Yola’s friend clandestinely manufactured authentic Guard uniforms for just such occasions. He, like Yola, took great pride in his work.
Virge passed the tavern not far from her house. The dark little place was still doing business. Or “business”. Not one of the Guard members stopping off there would be paying for a single drink. She hoped Raz didn’t go bankrupt tonight with all the extra freeloaders.
She made for the edge of town, thinking that she might cross the border on foot. She didn’t have much of a plan. Yola had done everything she could, altering her face to match the official identity card Virge was carrying, though she’d not yet been asked to produce it. Neither Vika nor any of Bongo’s other associates had turned up to advise her on a course of action. Maybe they’d gotten rounded up for some reason. Whatever, Virge figured she was on her own now.
Would the ID actually work? What about the real Cawd Delfel? Had she discovered it missing yet? Were the Guard on the alert for anyone posing as the Guard woman? Virge controlled these thoughts with effort, not permitting them to grow into panic.
The night’s chill felt acute on her scalp, which now bore only a fuzz of brownish-blond hair. She had barely been able to look at herself in the mirror after Yola had done her quick, neat work. Virge had transferred the meager goods she’d taken from her house to the deep pockets of her new black coat. She’d left her bag in Yola’s room.
A few blocks before she reached the border she came upon several bulky Guard transports. Black-garbed members were shuffling on board. Others were milling around. Someone waved Virge curtly toward one of the vehicles. She was too near to just turn away. So far she’d called no attention to herself. She didn’t want to start now.
She found herself standing in a queue. Around her, Guard members grumbled and griped. Apparently this search had been a great inconvenience for everyone involved. She was surprised to hear how many times the Guard referred vulgarly to various officers and even to the Toplux himself. Hearing a Guard member call Aphael Chav a “shit-eating imbecile” practically took Virge’s breath away. She herself remained silent, merely stepping forward with everyone else, knowing that disaster might befall her at any moment.
The Guard immediately ahead of her said, “I’m going on furlough,” to the bored-looking junior officer standing at the hatchway into one of the big vehicles. When it was Virge’s turn she saluted and said the same thing and brandished her ID, just like the man before her had done.
The junior officer studied the laminated card. Virge’s mouth was dry, her tongue a dull lump. Her heart beat loud enough in her ears that she thought surely everyone within a ten-foot radius could hear it too.
But she held her altered features in a careful neutral cast. And waited.
The Guard junior officer nodded. “Enjoy that furlough,” he said.
Virge climbed aboard the transport, still not entirely allowing herself to believe that this was working. What if Cawd Delfel was supposed to be somewhere else right now? What if Cawd Delfel—the real one—were on this vehicle too?
But again Virge kept down the panic. She took a seat and turned her gaze out the window. Less than ten minutes later the hatch closed and the transport’s engine came alive. Guard were already dozing around her, some snoring. Virge huddled in on herself as they swung out into the street.
She watched the last of her town slide by her window. She was leaving. So many years she’d live
d here, creating a life for herself. Now all that was gone. She would have to make something new.
Her final thought as they passed through the checkpoint and rolled across the border, heading outward, away from the Safe’s center, was, oddly enough, for her mother. Cynovar had been a very beautiful woman, imposing in personality. But a sadness had always touched her, Virge remembered. The two of them had lived here in this same town for the first part of Virge’s life. Her mother had died when Virge was barely an adolescent, shortly before the orders came for her sterilizing. Cynovar had never told her daughter anything about her father. Not one word, not ever.
Chapter Thirteen
The Weapon had a new mission, and instincts instilled by military tutelage came to bear. Focus. Suppression of fear. Determination to succeed. He had fulfilled every assignment he’d ever taken on. He had served the Lux’s interests. But no more. His priorities had changed.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
They were on their way, he and Bongo. Riding the rails toward the Safe’s border, where they would contact the group that was going on a raid into the Unsafe. Kath had said that word would be relayed ahead, presumably via some sort of illegal radio setup. Bongo would escort Urna there. All the Weapon had to do was fulfill the mission the Maji woman had charged him with—protect the salvage crew from Passengers. He had done this in an official capacity previously, he and Rune accompanying licensed gangs heading off to plunder the Unsafe for useful resources.
But Kath’s crew was after more than mere salvage.
“Do I?” Urna finally asked, turning toward Bongo, next to him on the open transport’s seat. The vehicles ran on batteries that needed recharging periodically. Since the underground wasn’t wired for power, the Maji members had to steal their electricity from above, in small increments, tapping secretly into the Lux grid.
“Yeah,” said Bongo. “You’ve got that I-just-got-laid look about you.” The self-described mage grinned. “Then again maybe you always look like that.”
For no good reason Urna felt a flush of embarrassment. Was it because Kath was a female and women had always been served up to him like meals? Or did he expect Bongo to respond with some primitive jealousy reflex?
Urna regarded the man intently for a moment before responding, and then only to say, fumblingly, “Kath and I…we—what I mean is—”
Bongo laughed, loud enough to echo over the rush of wind the transport created as it glided through the tunnel. They had a new driver, a woman with a leather patch over one eye who seemed content merely to work the speedy cart’s controls.
“I can guess what you mean, kiddo,” Bongo said. He drew a flask of cobalt-blue glass from his coat, lifted it in some gesture Urna didn’t quite recognize, downed a swallow, offered it to his seatmate.
Urna shook his head. After puzzling a moment, he found he had to ask, “Kiddo?”
“Sorry. I don’t know why I called you that.” Green eyes narrowed in curiosity, a small crease appearing between Bongo’s finely sculpted eyebrows. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you don’t remember? You can’t be older than twenty-three, twenty-four. Around my age. But I swear,” Bongo paused, briefly bit his lower lip, “it’s like I’ve been hearing about you my whole life. Urna the Weapon. Only that’s impossible.”
Urna eyed the flask still in Bongo’s hand. Alcohol, no doubt. Something he had picked up back at that hub of underground railway lines where they had paused, and where Kath had supposedly cast a spell on him, something to stir his memories.
“Urna the traitor,” the Weapon said abruptly. He used the word the driver of their first cart had assigned him, finding it less objectionable when spoken in his own voice.
“Traitor?” Bongo asked, in that same perplexed tone Urna had just used when he’d questioned the term kiddo. Again he offered the blue flask. “Sure you don’t want some?”
Urna fell silent. Despite the speed at which they were traveling, this journey would take a while. He slouched back, once again lulled by the motion, by the hum of the engine. Like Bongo, he didn’t know why he’d used that word. He let his eyes slip shut. He didn’t know if Bongo had been briefed about the upcoming salvage raid. It might be he knew nothing about it, having only been charged with escorting Urna on this leg of the journey.
The Order of Maji were organized. They were spreading their doctrine of resistance slowly. But this raid was something else, a categorical step forward in the planned future rebellion against the Lux and their minions.
Kath had told him that ancient maps had been obtained, pieced together, doggedly studied. They showed a valuable objective a reachable distance inside the Unsafe. An old arsenal, supposedly brimming with pre-Black Ship Elyrian weaponry. Guns. When the uprising came the Maji would need to be armed. Kath had said their Order wasn’t made up of pacifists. This scheme to plunder the ancient armory had convinced Urna of that.
A traitor would help arm an enemy against his own kind. But Urna no longer belonged to the Lux’s military. He didn’t have a kind anymore. He was alone. Even Rune was gone.
Urna’s eyes remained closed.
After some indefinite time an image came to him, seeping into his mind. A child. A boy. With intensely dark hair tumbling about his thinly molded features. He had a serious expression on his face, an oddly adult look for somebody so young. Urna wanted him to laugh. He was making an effort to get the boy to at least smile. That would be an accomplishment. Urna felt a profound affection for the child with the blue-black hair.
A dream? But Urna, sprawled on his seat, was still aware of the cart’s movement, of the drone of its motor. Even so, these impressions of his immediate reality were distant, almost ethereal, as if they were the dream instead.
The dark-haired boy was speaking, trying to impart something crucial to him. Urna couldn’t make out what it was. It seemed he’d already decided it was unimportant, continuing his attempts to get the other boy to laugh.
Other? Yes. Urna too was a child in this vision.
He was making faces at his more serious-minded companion, reaching out to try to tickle him under his spindly arms. Urna was more physically formidable than this other. But the boy with the dark hair had talents of his own, ones that intrigued Urna, that even—sometimes—filled him with a blistering envy.
Where was all this information coming from, all this background detail? The image in his mind was unchanged, just the face of the child against a hazy setting. No context. Where were they?
And what did Urna’s friend want to tell him?
A slowing, a halting. The rush of air ceased. It all served to jerk Urna out of his light doze—maybe not even that, maybe only a reverie, his imagination giving him a problem to mull. Who was that other boy? As Urna softly ground a knuckle into a corner of his eye, he felt certain the answer was near at hand. He only needed a minute to think about it.
“Let’s go, kiddo.”
Again kiddo. Had the word touched off that dream? Well, hardly a full dream. It must’ve taken up all of a minute. After all, Urna had just closed his eyes. And why exactly were they stopping?
Bongo was climbing out of the cart even as Urna’s hand slipped into his coat, touching the butt of his pistol.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly expecting trouble, surprised to find that his mouth felt gluey.
Bongo stood on a rough-looking ledge next to the halted transport. He said, “Can’t sleep your life away.” He’d unpacked his lantern once again and now lit it. “Let’s get going.”
Urna looked to the driver, but she was busy checking her controls. “Wait. Why’re we stopping here? I thought—”
The green eyes narrowed again, then understanding came to Bongo’s handsome features. “You were asleep for over two hours. It’s the end of the line for us. Tracks don’t go any closer to where we’re going. Come on. We’re almost there. We’ll reach the border a little after dark.”
* * * * *
A valet hovered, tugged at a lapel, picked invisible lint from a shoulder, frowned, made a soft hrrumph, until Aphael Chav finally waved him away. His raiment was tasteful, even debonair. Not the overblown frippery he might have worn at an Order of Lux conclave, rather the attire that the general populace of the Safe would expect to see their leader wearing.
The studio lights were hot. But he wouldn’t be underneath them long enough to break out in a sweat. Around him, technicians were scurrying, a fast, organized bustle. Normally this broadcast center, located inside the Citadel grounds, aired the reports on Weapon/Shadowflash forays into the Unsafe. Here those teams gave their reports for the cameras, footage that was incorporated into the broadcasts. Such programs were designed for maximum excitement. There were graphics, music cues, commentators trading rapid-fire observations among themselves. It all culminated in the announcement of the kill numbers. How many Passengers slaughtered. It was what people really cared about, something to engage the less sophisticated minds of the masses.
Aphael stood before the cameras. This special broadcast had been promoted over the course of the day throughout the Safe. Citizens had been advised to assemble before their local broadcast screens. The Toplux had an important message for his people. And he was going to deliver it—personally!
There was no precedent for this. During all his long reign Aphael Chav had not so directly addressed the population all at once. Always he had exercised his power at a remove. He had preferred to remain an abstract to the common people. A remote, indomitable figure. The mysterious and powerful being who inhabited the Citadel, whose fearful munificence allowed the Safe to exist.
It was true, in its way. He did have power. More power than anyone. There was a literal component to that truth as well. Power came from the sun and the sun only shone over the Safe, and the Lux controlled the power taken from the sun’s light. And he was mightiest among the Lux.
