by O. J. Lowe
He let go, relaxed his grip and fired his thrusters as he did, shooting high above his mount, almost high enough to touch the clouds he felt. He’d never had an experience like this, simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying, he didn’t know if he wanted to cheer in glee or piss himself in abject terror. Maybe he did both, he didn’t know, time seemed to stand still as he rose like the eagle. Behind him, the ship he’d escaped from looked so small, Serran below looked even smaller. His face relaxed, frozen into the rictus of a smile. It was cooler up here, the winds not as turbulent, they coughed, rather than howled as they whipped at him.
Those weren’t winds, he quickly realised, suddenly he wasn’t rising any longer, but falling, his thrusters coughing impotently. He’d spent his load, he didn’t know how far he had to fall but hoped it was enough. The agent tried to point himself like an arrow, aim for the patch of land below. A terrifying thought struck him, he hoped he’d not gotten turned around and it was Serran below him. It’d be bad if he landed in Vazara, they’d have him locked back up in seconds.
He ejected the thought from his head, even as he cut through the air like a human-sized bomb, falling faster and faster through gravity’s embrace. He was going to hit the ground and leave a small crater if his airloop didn’t activate. Another thought he didn’t even want to consider. That was assuming he hit the ground, there was an awful lot of water between him and Serran. At this height, it wouldn’t matter what he hit if his loop didn’t activate. He’d splatter across the water just as well as he would across the dirt.
Falling like this, it wasn’t unpleasant. Considering the months of torture, it was downright desirable. Just him and his thoughts, the hopes he’d achieve his goal and get out of this alive. He’d done well so far. Even getting to this point had looked impossible minutes ago, when those two blacks had faced him down and he’d thought he was going to get his face smashed in. Fight hard and fight dirty. Two lessons he’d always taken to heart.
When he dropped below what had to be a thousand feet, he started to believe he’d make it, he could see Serran below, the waterfront town of Latalya and that mountain behind it whose name he couldn’t remember. His altimeter in the jetpack was beeping, warning that he was approaching low altitude. Another five hundred feet and he’d punch his airloop, slow his fall temporarily. That’d be the moment of truth, if it failed then, he wouldn’t have too long to regret it. He’d been to Latalya before, found it a picturesque town with the occasional roughneck who fancied a fight. Now though, it had been turned into a military staging point, hovertanks and anti-aircraft defences built into the sea wall. He really hoped he didn’t register as large enough for a target. They’d track him, blow him to pieces no problem. Something he hadn’t considered before starting this hairbrained plan.
He held his breath, punched the button that sent the electricity coursing through his airloop, stiffening the material to form a cape-like sheath and his fall slowed, the wind catching beneath. The updraft caught the cape, pushed him further forward, past the sea wall and before he knew it, he was over the makeshift military camp, close enough to see the dark specks below he knew were people, shapes growing larger the further he fell. This was as good a place as any to land, he figured. He pulled himself out of glide formation, tucked himself up into a ball and started to drop the last leg like a stone, only throwing himself out into a starfish shape as he came within a hundred feet of the ground, pushed the button again, this time held it in for the cape to keep its shape, all the way to the ground, he rolled with it, his back jarring against the useless jetpack
This hadn’t gone unnoticed, he realised all too quickly as he looked up. He’d been too busy focusing on his descent to see them swarming beneath him, a dozen soldiers pointing blaster rifles at his head as he threw up his hands in surrender, laid on his back like a giant turtle.
“I’m Section Chief Raphael Barthomew of Unisco!” he shouted. “I’ve been held prisoner! For the love of the Divines, don’t bloody shoot!”
The meeting room had seen some use recently, she thought as she made her way in, gliding across the floor in what she felt was a regal enough manner to draw every eye to her. So much of life, she’d found, was psychological. If you acted the part well enough to make them believe your claims, they’d believe it without you having to repeat yourself. Here, she might as well be a Divine to them, so that was the role she chose to play. She gave them all a big smile as she entered, Domis pulling out her seat. One day, she’d get a throne and receive them all in the proper fashion, but for now, she’d stay in the same seat as the rest of them. The battle wasn’t won yet, and she needed to keep them onside. Holograms of Mazoud, Carson, Subtractor and a small-ish man next to him she didn’t recognise, sat staring at her. Alaxaphal, Fuller, Rocastle and Costa stared at her in person.
“Welcome, gentlemen and lady,” she said. She liked having Fuller around, in playing her part removing Ritellia from the rigours of life, she’d earned her eternal trust. A cacophony of polite greeting echoed around the room, not at all convincing but she couldn’t have everything. They’d been summoned at short notice and they’d come to her. That mattered. It mattered a damn lot. “Thanks for attending this urgent meeting, and without further ado, I’d like to ask Premier Mazoud what the hells he thinks he’s doing.”
She gave him a pointed look and a nod, permission to speak granted. Mazoud looked like he’d gone around the twist at long last, not a surprise. She always suspected it was the heat in Vazara, it set their minds a-spin given the chance. Most of them were crazier than wild rabbits in a heated sandbox. He wore a military uniform that had gone for grandeur over practicality, pure white with golden trim and enough medals to provide the gold to fund a small town’s economy for a month. Some of them looked almost genuine, others she was sure that he’d made up to grant himself sole receivership of them. She’d ask Alaxaphal later as to how genuine they were.
“Mistress Coppinger,” Mazoud said, his voice oily and unctuous. “Thank you for dragging us all to your presence, I must say. It is an honour to once again take time out of our busy schedules to be here at your whim.”
He must be feeling brave, she thought. His own soldiers from the Suns were mixed in with her own. All it would take would be one word from her and the next time he thought he was safe, he’d take a blaster bolt to the back of the head and that would be the end of Phillipe Mazoud. She could do it. Right now, she would give the order without hesitation. His words were measured enough to hint at insult without outright acknowledging it.
“And I am grateful you did, Premier Mazoud,” she said. Politeness cost nothing, even when the first urge had been to have his head torn off his shoulders and mounted on a spike for a warning to the masses. Only the difficult task of anointing a successor so soon had stopped her. Vazara was too volatile as it was, stabilising it had become a priority and removing an outspoken leader within weeks of him taking charge would be another step backwards. “Invasion of Serran at this time was not the plan.”
“It was your plan,” Mazoud said. “I stepped it up. Unisco taunted me, they sent a ship into my kingdom under the guide of a rescue mission, straight into the jungle. My forces are ready. Even now, we are staged and capable of launching attacks across their shoreline at my command. They move to mount their defences, and…”
“You are aware that one of your prisoners got away, aren’t you?” Subtractor said, silencing Mazoud mid-comment. “Straight off your flagship and into Unisco custody. They’re talking to him even as we speak, who knows what he’s going to spill about this.”
Inwardly she smiled. That event hadn’t been unforeseen. Agent Barthomew had been pumped for months now, Unisco hadn’t even been looking for him, a section chief himself scooped up and they’d done nothing. Further example of how Unisco needed to go. The organisation was too ineffective to function any longer. Parts were swallowed up. Hells, she’d even had a part in making sure Barthomew had been given a window of opportunity to flee, one of her own
had put it into place. He might follow Mazoud’s orders for now, but he danced to her tune. They all did. She’d considered threatening to withdraw them from Mazoud’s ranks, see if he still wanted to attack with a fraction of his forces, yet she kept her tongue. If she made that threat and failed to follow through, he’d make sure anyone with even a passing association with her would be moved to a place they couldn’t be of any use. Better to keep her powder dry and her cards in play.
“Don’t worry about Barthomew, Subtractor,” she said. “That problem will resolve itself. He knows nothing that will benefit them. Probably the opposite in fact.”
The man sat next to Subtractor let loose a bark of laughter, his voice polished like stone. “I have to say, my dear, that’s marvellous. Sow the seeds of discredit. A master tactic.”
“Subtractor, who is this?” she asked, smiling despite the seriousness of the situation. There was something about the dapper man, a sense of levity that she’d found missing from times like these of late.
“Nigel Carling, Mistress Coppinger, late of the Belderhampton branch of Unisco,” he said. “I’d kiss your hand if I weren’t worried my lips would go straight through it, so instead please accept my sincerest gratitude.”
Carling… That name sounded somewhat familiar. “Carling and Hobb?”
“I had a life before Lucas Hobb, my dear. You associate with one murderous bastard and you’re tainted for life.” He grinned as he said it. “I have no fancy nickname like my associate next to me, but Subtractor…” He made a face as he said it, clearly wasn’t keen. “Subtractor says he broke me out under your command. You want me to do something for you, name the price and it’ll be done double quick time. I honour my debts.”
“Shame you didn’t come with Hobb,” she said, breaking her gaze away from Carling and moving across to Mazoud. “He had a good record of killing problematic Vazaran rulers who got above themselves.”
Subtractor snorted with laughter, he’d heard the story by the sounds of it. Carling grinned, though nowhere near as wide. If Mazoud saw the funny side, he didn’t show it, rose to his feet with outrage on his face.
“I must protest at comments like that, Mistress,” he said. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to you and to hint at anything otherwise insults us both, my character and your intelligence. I moved my forces into an attack position for you. You’ve been out of contact for days…”
And you thought you’d try and make a play for power. Don’t try to fool me, Mazoud, you can’t kid a kidder.
“We all worried that something terrible had happened to you. We desired to follow on with your dream and subjugate the rest of the kingdoms as quickly as possible.” He looked worried now, she couldn’t blame him. He’d be a lot more worried if he could hear what she was thinking. He’d be cutting the connection and holing himself up in the palace he’d stolen from Nwakili.
“I never spoke to him,” Subtractor said, quick to ascertain his loyalty. She’d never doubted it. Costa made the same proclamation, as did Fuller and Alaxaphal. Carson remained silent, resting his chin on his hands as he leaned back in his seat, yet he shook his head. Carson owed her a lot, he wasn’t going to disappoint her just yet by breaking their agreement. She hadn’t seen him for weeks, he was in Serran, miles away from the battlefield Mazoud wished to set up. Rocastle was the final one to deny any sort of contact and Mazoud managed to go pale as he looked around the room. He was worried, she could see that, could read it in the way he held himself, like a rabbit ready to flee.
Poor scared little man. If she chose to crush him, he’d be crushed.
“Sit down, Phillipe,” she said. “Withdraw your fleet. Nobody’s needlessly thrown their life away so far. We can resolve this without shots being fire, right now that’s what we need.”
“Mistress Coppinger,” Mazoud said, his eyes blazing with defiance. “I have my forces sat on Serran’s doorstep. If I do not attack now, I show the sort of weakness that will halt my rule in its tracks. If I retreat, they will follow me across the sea. They’ll use my launching point against me, I’ll be hunted like a beast as they try to take back their precious kingdom.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Tough at the top, Phillipe. I told you not to attack, to wait for my command. You’ve shown your hand, don’t be surprised that they know what cards you’re going to play.”
“Mistress, you cannot make me do this. We must press the advantage now before we lose it.”
She fixed him with a glare, the sort of pointed stare that would have cowed a dragon tamer in his tracks.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I believe you just told me what to do. I’m going to let you in a little secret, Premier Mazoud. I own you. You have your crown because I gave it to you. You’d still be a third-rate mercenary prince if I’d not elevated you to something more. I gave you your crown. If you really think I can’t take it back from you, then you are sadly deluded.” She continued to smile at him. “That is the burden of rule. You do what you think you must until you can’t. And when you can’t, you need to face the consequences of your actions. If you wish to press this attack, then go ahead. But do not expect my forces to fight with you. Do not expect any further help from me.”
That was the stick. She liked using the stick, though sometimes they needed some carrot too to help them make the right choice. Some people backed down when they felt like it was their interest. “But,” she added. “Step back now and our relationship can continue. More than that, our alliance remains intact. Mutual benefit, Premier Mazoud. Win this battle and you’ll lose the war. But stick with me and you’ll win many battles after.”
She had him then, she knew it with the way the defiance fell from his face and he let his head tilt almost imperceptibly.
Getting back into her office with the bronze compass, she felt relief the meeting was over. Mazoud was turning out to be too much of a problem. The sooner she could replace him, the better things would be. If Leonard Nwakili had turned out to be more amenable, they wouldn’t have found themselves here at all. Nwakili, for all his perceived faults (her propaganda machine at work during the initial stage of the invasion,) had been a much better leader than Mazoud ever would. He’d had an aura about him, the feeling of a wise man tempered by his experiences. Mazoud was a thug, he’d been a thug while a foot soldier in the Suns, he’d been a thug when he’d led them, and he was a thug now. No other way of looking at the situation. She’d brought him to heel this time, he’d promised to cease his assault, but it would only be a matter of time before he tried again.
The words lay heavy on her, the insinuations that had come from both Sinkins and Domis earlier. Her mother had died before she was ten. She had grasped for greatness, developed an obsession with Divine lore, what came before and after life. It was certainly food for thought.
She poured herself a firebrandy, sipped the contents thoughtfully. Claudia knew she’d never truly considered her mother as important before, hadn’t known much about her. In childhood, you never saw your parents as human, they were more as Divines themselves. All-powerfully prominent. Only with the wisdom of age did you start to realise their fallibility. Past a certain point, you began to revel in it. Every failure became a victory for you, a building brick in the steadfast certainty that you were going to do things better than they ever could.
All she remembered about her mother, a woman dead for more than thirty years, was she’d been beautiful, even if sometimes there had been a cold indifference about her, a trait she’d been accused of more than once. Cycles really did come around then, if that were the case. She’d always wondered how the two of them had gotten together, her and her father. The sort of family they’d been, there weren’t any sort of nostalgic family sit downs, no ‘this is how I met your mother’ stories. They’d never been like that, but now she wondered about the attraction.
She had to be crazy for even considering it, she’d almost snapped at Sinkins earlier for suggesting it. Could he be wrong? Possible. Could he be right? It wa
sn’t impossible. What if he was right? What and if were only two small words but the potential impact they might have were staggering.
Claudia looked at the compass on her desk, the Forever Cycle, saw it stare silently back at her through its broken face. The little bronze cups next to it lay untouched and alone, she leaned forward and placed her glass next to them before sliding them into place, attaching them through the holes delicately threaded into the sides of it. Something about the act felt soothing to her racing heart, a chance to relax and reflect, work with her hands, a task all too alien in recent years. She even brought out the polish and the duster, did her best to buff away the burns and the stains filling each of the cups, wondering how they’d come about. It was tough to shift them, her muscles ached by the time she’d finished yet she didn’t falter in the task. Doing this felt like the most important thing she could do at this moment, a simple first step on a long road.
When she was finished, she had to admit but for the crack that marred its face, the Forever Cycle was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Perfection in pocket size. Attachment to an object was irrational but she knew she’d kill to keep hold of it. Looking at it, she got the feeling that she and it were meant to be together, that it was hers by right.
“Stupid,” she muttered, and yet it felt less so the more she considered it. She slid open the drawer in her desk, drew out a knife, silver and pearl engraved into the handle, a family heirloom she’d not been able to let go of despite it belonging to the past. Her grandfather and great-grandfather had used it to open letters back in the day, yet she maintained it well, knew it was one of the last few historical Coppinger treasures. They weren’t big on sentiment, never had been, likely never would. One day, she might have handed it to Meredith. That wasn’t happening now. Maybe she’d hand it off to Domis, any descendants he might have. That idea wasn’t without its charm, though for as long as she’d known him, he’d never shown any sort of inclination towards sexual relationships with either men or women. She couldn’t entirely trust someone who lacked those urges, not normally, but they made for reliable associates. Domis got a bye in that respect, she’d put her life in his hands on more than one occasion. That sort of trust was difficult to erode without tangible reason.
