by O. J. Lowe
“Make your report, Nicholas. Play it straight. Wordplay isn’t your forte and you shouldn’t treat it as such.”
He laughed as he headed for the door. “You know, you’re not the first to say so, Helga. You’re not the first one at all.” He allowed himself a look at her as he reached the exit. “I’ll be back to see you again.” She smiled at that, he thought she might damn near purr for a moment.
“Don’t dally, Nicholas. This is a lonely place and the healing is slow. Someone to talk to would just while away the time nicely.”
“Get well soon, Ms Carlow,” he said, his choice of name for her slipping out beyond his best efforts to halt it. “Try not to let this place get you down. Farewell.”
He didn’t look back as he closed the door behind him, strode down the corridor like he didn’t have a care in the world. Not a thousand miles from the truth either. All his cares had long since faded from the forefront of his mind, he could feel their weight pushing into his back and he looked forward to the day he could shed them all. He supposed it was time to go and face Icardi, see what music he had in mind for him. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but about his only viable option now. Too much had gone by for him to do anything else.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. He shouldn’t have hung about like this, risked awakening the ire of Icardi, a man prone to outbursts of temper at the best of time. He’d have to ride it out. He’d faced down Claudia Coppinger, routinely went blaster to blaster with people who wanted to kill him.
What was one pompous bureaucrat? Unfortunately, he was the sort of pompous bureaucrat that might well turn out to be a thorn in his side which he couldn’t afford right now. The job wasn’t done yet. Coppinger was still out there and he needed to be the one who found her and her crew of psychopaths.
She needed to go down. Nobody could dispute that. It was the single greatest truth that anyone in the five kingdoms would ever speak in either the recent or the coming months. Coppinger had to be stopped. She needed to be defeated.
As always, he thought, that was easier said than it was done.
It felt good to be back behind the main desk at Unisco, until he’d sat down in his old seat and felt the contours of the wood, he didn’t realise how much he’d missed it. Terrence Arnholt had run a long race with death and staved it off for the time being, triumph a temporary reprieve. He knew that it’d come to him one day, but that day hopefully wouldn’t be any time soon. The shooting hadn’t been fatal, he’d wanted to come back to work a lot sooner than his doctors would allow him to, but they hadn’t permitted that. They’d prescribed rest and recuperation, lots of it, even as he’d tried to explain the job needed him, yet they weren’t having it.
He couldn’t be overtly critical. What was the point in expensive and highly qualified doctors if you didn’t follow their professional opinion? Unisco allocated a considerable amount from its budget to make sure proper medical care was available to anyone injured in the line of duty, it was the least he personally could make sure they did. It had been maddening though to see the way things had unfolded. He’d been distraught when Nwakili had died, the man had been a good ally to have in the past. When he’d been invited to speak in the Senate, Nwakili had always spoken highly of the need for a strong Unisco and his belief in law and order and how it needed to be applied.
There’d been a part of him that had considered not returning to the job. Nobody would have blamed him, he’d had a good run at it, Unisco was running its highest rates of mission success for the last twenty years, albeit statistics not including the Coppinger crisis. Nobody could have seen it coming, nobody at all and that they’d been ill-equipped to cope was hardly a surprise. Complacency had crept in amongst some agents, they’d gotten softer as they’d gotten older and that wouldn’t do. Maybe they’d thought the kingdoms were getting safer, that they didn’t need to be as sharp. That was the attitude that’d get an agent killed. Between Brendan and Swelph, they’d done the right thing when he’d been shot and unable to lead the agency, they’d immediately opened the door for new recruits. He would have done the same thing. Training them took time and the sooner they started, the sooner they could get them out into the field.
Now though, he’d had a message from Tod Brumley regarding the testing of two of the earliest cadets and Arnholt had to admit to mixed feelings as he’d read about Peter Jacobs and Theobald Jameson, one the friend of his daughter’s boyfriend and one the son of the most notorious criminal in Premesoir in recent years. Said criminal had been killed on a training exercise, his son and his partner in their final examination had blundered into a meeting between Cyris and a Kenzo Fojila operative. They didn’t know what he’d been hiring an assassin for, though Jameson had suggested it might be to kill someone, in what Brumley had described as ‘typical abrasive fashion’ according to instructors at the Iaku academy. The report from Inquisitor Konda said that Cyris had been shot through the face, his bodyguard stabbed in the throat. He’d seen the pictures of Cyris’ dead guard, that a pair of cadets had managed to take him down was impressive. Most seasoned agents would have struggled with a fellow his size.
Both cadets had taken beatings, but they’d live. He was troubled by the idea of Cyris hiring an assassin but if he was no longer in the land of the living, Kenzo Fojila weren’t going to get paid and they weren’t a charity. If he hadn’t paid, they wouldn’t make the kill. Still, he’d forwarded it on to the Unisco task force intended to keep an eye on the assassins. Worth keeping an eye on. More of a struggle was the decision what to do with Jameson and Jacobs. Technically, they’d failed their examination, but he had to admit that the circumstances were exceptional.
It wasn’t common for something like this to happen, but it was a possibility always considered. Right back to the foundation of the agency under the now-late Brennan Frewster, the wording in the rules had stated that circumstances like this came to fall under ‘the discretion of the appropriate parties.’ That meant Inquisitor Konda at the academy in this circumstance, he’d signed off on it and passed it up to Tod Brumley who’d also signed off with his consent. Now it had come in front of him. As far as he was concerned, the kingdoms were a better place without Cyris in them, the two cadets had behaved well in astonishing circumstances and he was happy to bestow upon them the rank of agent and continue their training in their chosen field. An inquisitor and a combat specialist, according to the reports. He had a feeling they might need plenty of those in the coming months.
Next, the Brennan Frewster thing itself. There’d been too much video footage of Nick’s duel with Saarth on the viewing screens, it hadn’t looked particularly good, especially considering they’d recorded Frewster’s death. The whole situation had turned into a bit of a fiasco, Frewster was dead, his housekeeper in the hospital and they weren’t sure if Saarth was going to survive for interrogation, he wasn’t sure he’d have blamed Nick for it personally, but Icardi was doing his best to make sure he took some of the fall for it, criticising every aspect of his decision making throughout the entire process. No doubt to distract from his own part in it. Arnholt didn’t rate Icardi, he wasn’t overly impressed that he’d been moved into Brendan’s job until he returned from Vazara, another decision he wasn’t happy about. At a time like this when the kingdoms were going to the hells, Brendan could have made a different choice. One did simply not chew out a man like Brendan King in theory, but Arnholt was ready to do just that when he returned. The sooner Icardi could be shunted away, the better. As far as Arnholt was concerned, he wasn’t trustworthy. There’d always been insinuations about him, the inquisitors had never found anything, but the director went with his gut. He always had. Instinct may be misplaced but they were rarely wrong.
Then Carling. Another embarrassment that Unisco’s most high-profile traitor of recent years had managed to escape jail during a riot, videocams suggesting it had been staged especially for that purpose. So far, the identity of the instigator remained unclear, but techs were working on it. Surveil
lance had been damaged during the riot. Carling was lost, he hadn’t been seen since, but he’d wondered if Coppinger had any part to play in it. They’d had connections, a recent fresh examination of the double act Carling and Hobb had put together had revealed the last contract had been paid for by Coppinger. The finances matched records Agents Khan and Wallerington had pulled from Harvey Rocastle’s family in Burykia, though an investigation into the building had ultimately pulled up nothing according to Khan. A dead end. The two of them were in Serran now, chasing a fresh lead according to her, though she hadn’t said what it might be.
Still, one positive. Raphael Barthomew had returned with a truly fantastic story of being held prisoner by the Vazaran Suns for a year, tortured and healed only for the cycle to begin anew when he’d recovered. The story of his escape would go down in agency folklore, he felt, not many escaped in that fashion only to be arrested and subsequently bailed by the military. Any story that involved jetpacks immediately had the making of legend. And those files he’d snuck back from his prison… They were being deciphered even now, hopes that they could glean some sort of tactical advantage from them, Okocha and his team going through them. Everyone was praying to any Divine that would listen they’d find something that made Barthomew’s year of captivity worth it. He hated to think that things had gone the way they had. Barthomew had started out on a leave of absence, that leave had turned into weeks without contact. Anyone who’d gone looking for him hadn’t found him and now they knew why, and it unsettled him. Things had been unsettled around Unisco lately, what the restructuring and most of the senior agents being unavailable for one reason or another.
A message flashed up on his monitor, he glanced at it. Okocha. Two words and an attached video sent to him and to Swelph. He read them aloud, not entirely sure what they meant until he clicked on the video. “Look familiar?” he asked. “Who should look…?”
He pressed the play button, watched it click into motion. Wasn’t much to see, quite grainy, a glowing blue tube in the background, the camera panning closer and closer. There looked to be something in there, resting in the water. It could be water, it might be some sort of umbilical fluid. Curious. That something was a someone, their back to the camera but judging by the shape of their body, they had to be female. Very womanly shape, though he had to wait until it panned around to have that confirmed from the view of her front. Long strands of blond hair billowed about her face, enough to make it difficult to recognise her but not at all impossible. The only impossibility about it was her identity. It just couldn’t be real. It was impossible. He could see her breathing, her chest rising and dropping in the fluid, a mask covering her mouth and nose as she slept.
No! No! Not possible!
He was gripping his fist together, he could feel the nails digging into the flat of his palm and he brought himself from his reverie by slamming said fist into the desk. Pain shot up through his arm, he winced and exhaled sharply. Could it be…?
No. It had to be a trick. There was no other way of looking at it. It couldn’t be her. She’d died. He knew that face, he’d met her on more than one occasion. He’d dined with her, he’d interviewed her, he’d even fought her. He pushed the button on his summoner, found Okocha’s number and dialled it, heard his voice come through loud and clear. “Okocha.”
“Will,” Arnholt said, unnerved to find he couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice. “Is this video accurate? It’s not doctored in any way that you can find?”
“Doesn’t look it. It doesn’t pass any tests for any of the regular themes in forged footage. I’ve seen plenty of them in my time, Director, and if this is a fake then it’s the best I’ve ever seen. Maybe the best made ever, full stop.”
That didn’t bode well. He swallowed, glanced back and forth as if an answer might present itself. None came. The scar where he’d been shot ached in his chest, he had to fight the urge to rub at it.
“Your opinion Will?”
“It’s not a fake,” he said. “There are too many consistencies for it to be one.” He carried on at length, started to list through all the factors rendering him so sure the video was genuine, Arnholt wasn’t listening, found himself tuning out as he continued to watch the woman in the tube. She looked better than she had done the last time he’d seen her, when she’d had half her head blown away and a burn straight through her chest. Though she slept, her mouth had that same arrogant slant to it, a smirk telling everyone around she found something funny and they didn’t know what it was. He’d always found her a little arrogant on the battlefield, though most top callers had that in their armoury. It made things interesting. In private, she’d been much more hospitable, a pleasure to engage with. She’d done a lot of good things, though given what they now knew about her, perhaps it was atonement rather than charity.
“… there’s always a level of fuzziness around the edges, it’s a distortion of quality, not really anything anyone can do about it…” Okocha continued, oblivious to the thoughts running through his head.
“Will!” Arnholt said loudly. “I understand. Verify it as best you can. I need to know.”
“Understood, Director.” All business now. He no doubt had a chagrined look on his face at being interrupted in flow. Okocha was a genius but he could be touchy if you got on his wrong side. Still, people seemed to like him and there weren’t many geniuses out there who could say that.
“This could be terrible if it’s true,” he continued.
“Understood, Director.” He was definitely annoyed, Arnholt guessed. Tough shit, Will. We all have jobs to do.
“And Will?”
“Yes, Director?” he said.
“You told me, and you told Swelph. I’ll talk to Walter. I don’t want you telling anyone else. Not if it turns out to be fake and absolutely not if it turns out real. I’d prefer it if you just forgot the whole thing, but I guess that isn’t likely. Keep it to yourself.”
“Understood, Director. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Especially not Roper,” Arnholt said. “And definitely not Baxter either. The last thing we need is one of those two going on some sort of suicide mission for answers. Guilt does funny things.”
“If they do hear it, it won’t be from me,” Okocha said. “Anything else, Director?”
“No,” Arnholt said. “Thanks, Will. Be well. Stay at it.”
“Always do, Director.”
He hung up, settled back in his seat and studied the video for one final time, before closing it down. He didn’t need to think about the consequences of what he’d seen. Things were getting bad and this could be the firework in the melting pot that started the fire around them all.
They couldn’t get much worse, he assured himself. The melting pot analogy felt disturbingly accurate. The kingdoms were being pushed, Coppinger was winning it would appear. Every day she was out there, she gathered new people to her cause. She spoke of another way, a new world with herself at the top. She’d already taken Vazara. The attack on Serran had begun, Mazoud declaring war and then beating a hasty retreat without a shot being fired back in anger. They were being pushed harder than they ever had before.
Another report, this one from the Unisco base on Galina Island that a distress beacon had been activated, the one Brendan had taken with him and a ship despatched to pick him and his academic team up. That had temporarily lifted his spirits until he’d read the next part, seen contact had been lost with the ship several hours later, in the part of the Vazaran desert known as Ferros’ Arsehole. They were trying to get a recovery team out, but the locals weren’t making it easy. Another setback but worth the efforts to get Brendan and David Wilsin back. They were wasted out in Vazara, he needed them here and bloody fast.
He heard the knock, glanced up as Ms Luccisantini stuck her head around the door, dear Lola, former Unisco bodyguard now enjoying her time safeguarding him. She was no ordinary secretary, that was for sure, he was lucky to have her. He grinned, it was quite fortunate he had some pull within
this agency. She’d been quite the beauty in her younger years, still was a head turner into her forties, that beauty tempered by the wisdom of age but all the better for it.
“Director Arnholt,” she said. “Your daughter is on the line. She’s demanding to talk to you.”
That caught his attention. Mia had never called him here before. She didn’t know what he did, didn’t know what he’d done throughout his life. She thought all his time was taken up being a city champion. As ruses went, those were running thin. The demands of two jobs like that just grew and grew, soon they’d all have to pick between one or the other.
“Okay, put her through on the holocom,” he said, settling back in his seat.
“You might want to see the live news as well,” Lola said. “I think the two might be related. I’ll patch her through.”
She vanished back behind the door, and he thumbed the remote for the viewing screen towards the back of the room, watched it flicker into life. He found the FiveK channel, the rolling media coverage for Five Kingdoms Media and leaned forward to get the best view. The scenes were coming in from Serran, he’d half expected it to be linked to Mazoud’s aborted attack. Instead it was coming somewhere inland, a village out in the middle of nowhere, local police and uniformed Unisco agents wandering all over the screen. His heart fell, hurt in his chest, a twinge bursting through him. The words at the bottom of the screen read ‘Live from Donavio.’
What the hells had happened now?
His holocom buzzed, his hand unconsciously went to it as he read the tagline on the screen, one caption to sum up the story and he realised that he’d tempted fate badly and he’d spoken too soon.
The picture on screen was of a brown-skinned man, probably in his early-to-mid-twenties, a mixed-race kid grinning at whoever had taken at the picture. Arnholt knew who he was. Everyone who had even a passing interest in spirit calling knew who he was after he’d made a run to the final of the Quin-C some months earlier. No doubt the caption would push the kingdoms even further on the brink.
