Caine Black Knife
Page 42
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “This wasn’t what I wished for.”
I rolled my eyes around the cream-colored walls. “Not exactly the top of my Christmas list either.”
“Michaelson—Caine—” He sighed. “What should I call you?”
“You can call me Jonathan Fist.”
He frowned at me. “Jonathan Fist?”
“He made a deal too.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s because you’re thinking in English. The original name is German.” He shook his head. “And?”
I just shook my head. “Nobody fucking reads anymore, you know that?
“Fist, then. Please understand. I’m sixty-six years old. I was trapped on Overworld three years ago when you cut off Studio operations on Assumption Day. Along with all the Actors and scouts and Overworld Company personnel and everybody else. I thought I would die there, finally, after all. I mean, we didn’t know what you had done; all any of us knew was that we couldn’t get home. I was near retirement, looking forward to watching my grandchildren grow up . . . and then—”
“Yeah.”
“I was in Kor when it happened. All I could think to do was get to Thorn-cleft, to the Railhead . . . but when I got there, of course they were as trapped as I was—but they had a copy of, well, your recording . . .”
I knew which one. “Yeah.”
“I am sorry—it was clear how much she meant to you—”
“It seems like a long time ago.”
He cleared his throat. “Anyway—finding out that the dillin were actually gates to Earth . . . I remembered Hell, and the Tear of Panchasell, and there was one slim chance that we could see home again, if we could find a way to open the dil . . .”
“I get the picture.”
“And that was all I wanted. To get home. That was all any of us wanted. But when we finally . . .” His voice trailed off.
“They made you an offer.”
He nodded. “Do you have any idea what it’s worth to the Board to have Overworld access again? Plus we’re importing griffinstones—did you know that there are magickal effects possible here? Do you have any idea what can be done with the combination of magick and cybernetics?”
“Yeah.”
“Some of your recovery, in fact—” He stopped. “You knew?”
“You’d be surprised what I know. Look, Rab—uh, I should call you Faller, huh?”
He nodded. “Rababàl died twenty-five years ago.”
I shrugged. I shrug a lot these days. The more I know, the less I have to say.
He said, “I have a very, very good thing going on the Battleground right now. I am very close to a retirement that is a great deal more comfortable than I could have ever hoped for—and then you show up, and I thought—I mean, think about it. Think about our history. Or my history, if you want to put it that way.”
“I get it.”
“And it’s not just that. Every Company man on Overworld has strict instructions to hand you over on contact, Caine.”
“Fist.”
“It would have meant my job at the very least. Possibly my life.”
“I told you: I get it.”
“It wasn’t personal.”
I nodded. “You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t come to Purthin’s Ford to pee in your soup.”
He offered a tired-sounding chuckle. “Give me something I can take to the Board of Governors, Caine. That’s all I want, you know. That’s what I came here for. Just . . . something. Something to make them think I’m not completely useless.”
“Tell them I’ll play,” I offered. “Tell them you convinced me. We can negotiate.”
He stared at me. “You mean it?”
“Sure. We don’t have to butt heads, Faller. Unless you want to. I know what it’s like to have the Bog on my neck. I’m not gonna wreck you just for doing your job, man.”
“You—” He blinked, closed his mouth, and tried again. “All I had to do was ask?”
“You know how rare it is that anybody just asks?” I nestled my head back into the pillow and stared at the blank cream ceiling. “When anyone wants anything from me, they’re always trying to bully me or blackmail me or play on my guilt or shame or fucking beat me into submission. The best I get is a generous bribe. Nobody ever even suspects that I might so much as cross the fucking street just because I’m not one hundred percent pure shitbag.”
“I can see how that must hurt. Poor misunderstood mass murderer.”
He was laughing at me. I joined in. “They’re off by at least a percent or two.”
So we had our little chuckle. It didn’t last.
He said, “Do you—do you really think you can make a deal with the Board? After everything you’ve done?”
“Depends. I need you to get some recording equipment in here. The Bog can do that for you, huh? All up-and-up.”
“I don’t get it.”
“There’s things about the situation over there that I’m pretty sure they don’t know. There’s things I can do for them that I’m damned sure they don’t know.”
He gives me a half up-and-down, half sideways seminod of noncommittal agreement. “I can . . . I suppose I could come back, well, online . . .”
“You can?”
He tapped his skull behind his left ear. “My thoughtmitter . . . I suppose—since you—they’ve decided it pays them to keep an eye on what all of us are doing over there.”
“Works for me. How bad are things on Home? I mean, I’m guessing—because you’re here and all—that Angvasse didn’t go berserk and kill everybody.”
He nodded. “She—is not your biggest fan.”
“She’s on board with your whole Smoke Hunt game?”
“I—don’t know. After—well, I haven’t seen her. No one has.”
That couldn’t be good news. “What about Markham?”
“Lord Tarkanen is . . . I suppose you’d call him Acting Justiciar. Pending confirmation by the Lords Legendary.”
“Fuck me like a goat. Orbek?”
“The Justice never happened. She didn’t show up.”
“So? They let him go or what?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had—more pressing concerns.”
“It’s that bad?”
“I would never have dreamed everything could go so wrong so quickly.”
“Good.”
He frowned at me. “It is?”
“The worse shit gets, the better I do.”
“If that’s true”—he sighed and sagged forward until his chin rested on his hands—“you’ll probably end up king.”
Which brings us to more or less now.
Without my help, the best you can hope for is destruction of your Black-Stone operation, and permanent loss of your access to Home—that is, Over-world. I repeat: that’s your best. Remember that Deliann truly believes that the fundamental purpose of the Ankhanan Empire is to defend Home against fuckers like you. Like us. Remember that it was his grandfather who forged the dil T’llan to keep us out. Remember that Deliann is also the head of House Mithondionne, which makes him king of the elves. Who are the greatest spell-casters of Home. Remember what happened to your invasion force three years ago. Remember that the entire Ankhanan Empire has spent these past three years preparing to make war on you.
Try to imagine what that war will be like. They won’t be coming to conquer; we’ve got nothing they need. They’ll be coming to punish, get it? You won’t know what a scorched-earth policy really is until you see it executed by a conflagration of dragons. Think of Deliann as me with an army. Think of yourselves as the Black Knife Nation.
Between them and you, all you’ve got is me.
This is what I bring to the table:
The Smoke Hunt still exists, so I’m still an Agent of Khryl. No matter how much Markham hates me, he can’t touch me publically. Pretty much every Khryllian I meet has to kiss my ass, and the Soldiers of Khryl are still the fin
est fighting force in the history of either world. I’ve got a Khryllian Knight in my pocket. I’ve got Kierendal believing I’m on her side. I’ve got an Esoteric strike team that’s probably in place already, which is commanded by a woman who worships me as a god. I’m the goddamn boogeyman of the ogrilloi, my brother is kwatcharr of the Black Knives—unless, y’know, I am—and no one alive can match my understanding of the dil T’llan.
Not to mention that I am, all modesty aside, the Hand of Ma’elKoth.
I can get you out from under the Khryllians. When I’m done, you’ll have permanent access to Overworld. Permanent.
I can stop the war. Or, y’know, win it.
This is what I want:
I want my job back.
Not Acting. I guess you could say I want Faller’s job. Better yet: I want to be his boss. Call it Director of Overworld Operations. I want an iron-clad lifetime contract, along with a full wipe-the-fucking-record-clean pardon for any and all prior acts.
I know you don’t trust me. The beauty is that you don’t have to. Nothing I can possibly do will make shit any worse than it is already. Call it my gift to you: the gift of no tomorrow.
Think it over. Take your time.
I’ve got nowhere I have to be.
This story concludes
in Act of Atonement: Book Two:
His Father’s Fist
MATTHEW STOVER believes that nearly everything worth knowing about his life can be found in his books.
ALSO BY
MATTHEW STOVER
Iron Dawn
Jericho Moon
Heroes Die
Blade of Tyshalle
Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: Traitor
Star Wars: Shatterpoint
Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith
Caine Black Knife is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Del Rey Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2008 by Matthew Stover
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a
trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stover, Matthew.
Caine black knife / Matthew Stover.
p. cm. — (Acts of Caine ; 3}
“A Del Rey Books trade paperback original.”
“The third of the Acts of Caine: Act of atonement: book one.”—T.p.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50971-0
I. Title.
PS3569.T6743C3 2008
813’.54—dc22 2008027581
www.delreybooks.com
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