by Jo Zebedee
A clamour of voices rose in agreement, building all the time. Let the people know, if she made it into the city, that their voice had helped to get her past security. She faced the guard. “Let me past. I wish to speak to the people in my city.”
He looked around the growing crowd, tight against the barrier, and seemed a little less sure of himself. Sonly hid a smile: Abendau might be the Empress’ again, but something had to be left of the years of peace and democracy and the hope she’d carried.
The crowd grew bigger by the moment, joined by more press, their holo-recorders zooming in on her.
“You heard the president. Let her past.” Christophe emerged from the crowd, his voice holding the calmness of a statesman used to being obeyed. He gave Sonly a nod, his face impossible to read. Not welcoming, as such, but not cold, either. Proud, perhaps.
That took her aback. Christophe, who’d hated her reforms and opposed her at every juncture, proud of her? For what? Coming back to the city, presumably, instead of running from the shattered remains of her career.
She found herself smiling at him. He wasn’t hiding like most of the Senate. Three had promised their support, and only he had the courage to see it through. He must know, just as well as she did, that if this gamble failed, the Empress would make him pay. His career, at the very best, would be over; the cells of Abendau palace were entirely possible, too.
The security chief looked from Christophe to the holo-recorders, to the crowd, to Sonly, unsure what to do. The crowd picked up on the chink of opportunity. They started to chant. Her smile widened. She ducked through the security gate, and no hands stopped her. The crowd gathered around her.
A diversion, was she? If so, she’d be the best damn diversion anyone had ever seen in Abendau.
CHAPTER FORTY
Lichio bypassed the main cafeteria and doubled back towards the docking bays, mentally going over the plan of the port. Getting to where he needed wasn’t straightforward, but there was no direct way without passing through security. Whilst Sonly might be able to delay and bluster, he’d be under military arrest within minutes of being identified.
He put his hand inside his uniform, checking his blaster, and then picked his way down the line of concealed pockets. He was probably carrying too much equipment, but in ten years as an intelligence chief he’d learned it never paid to be under-equipped. Besides, he’d need every advantage he could get: a decade behind a desk blunted anyone’s edge. He’d forgotten what it felt like when every decision could be your last one. How exhilarating it was to be on such high alert that the world took on a sharp edge of clarity, reminding you why life, even when it was shit, was worth holding on to.
He kept his movements casual as he slipped through an access door to the docking bays and stopped at a security door beyond. It wasn’t manned, not in this obscure corridor, but it was locked with both a code lock and a security-override alarm. And a camera, fixed on the door.
He cracked his knuckles and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a decoder. Normally, he wouldn’t try this – a decoder would never work through the parameters of coding quickly enough. But here, in his own port, he’d narrowed the parameters by locking in the first three of ten digits – the identifier for the port itself. He bit his lip, remembering the plans and making sure he had identified the section correctly, and inputted the next two. Quickly slapping his hand back, he attached the decoder to the lock.
He pulled out a direction-finder and leaned over it: just another pilot turned around in the maze of corridors and cargo bays. He’d learned over many years in security – those who skulked were caught. The more brazen and open were less likely to get stopped. He fought the urge to glance at the lock.
A soft buzz sounded, making him jump in sharp hope. He pushed the door and it opened. Excellent. He slipped into the empty service corridor beyond, ensuring the security door closed after him, and forced himself to a casual saunter. He wouldn’t be the first pilot to bribe the access-codes from a broke staff member; if discovered, he’d be sent back to the public areas with little more than a slap on the wrist. Provided, of course, he wasn’t recognised. He sped up.
He made his way down the corridor, keeping the layout of the port in the front of his mind. Once, he’d known it well – but as the focus of Kare’s military strength had moved to the compound, the port had grown, becoming more commercial, and Lichio had focused less on it. He’d needed the couple of days’ flight-time to refresh his memory. He passed into the next sector, through a little-known firewall space, and down a stairwell to street level.
He was getting close now. His hands started to sweat. He pulled the hat farther over his eyes; he might have a lower profile than Kare, but he was hardly unknown. He turned a final corner and there, at the very far end of the corridor, was Exit 7: the back access-way from the port, and the least monitored. The same exit he’d secured during Kare’s slave revolt, when the port had been a simpler building with much less traffic. He’d led a squad down this corridor and had given orders for the door to be stormed. He wished he had a squad right now.
He took his time, scanning the corridor’s security coverage. Pretty standard: wall-mounted camera coverage with section-controls to seal the corridor in an emergency. Presumably a standard team of four soldiers in the guard-room beside the exit. None of it was going to make taking the exit any easier. He slipped his hand into his uniform’s pocket. The four soldiers would need to be taken out at the same time. He tightened his fingers around a neutron grenade; it felt very flimsy for the job at hand.
He made his way up the corridor, making sure not to break his stride. Confidence would get him further than subterfuge, he reminded himself. He passed a series of doors on either side, secured entries to the docking bays, and hummed to himself.
A soldier stepped out of the guard-room and advanced, hands ready on his rifle, eyes sharp. “This is a restricted section.”
Lichio’s throat tightened, but he managed a smile. “My ship’s allocated to Bay 13.” His voice came out reasonably strong, all things considered. “I thought this was the right section?”
The soldier glanced back, presumably at his colleagues. Lichio’s hand tightened on the grenade. He fought the urge to charge; he needed to be close enough to take all four soldiers. There’d be no second chance.
“No.” The soldier’s voice was flat, but his stance was relaxed; Lichio obviously wasn’t the first pilot to turn up lost. “That’s in sector four.”
Another soldier stepped out of the guard-room. Come on, come on, where are the other two?
“So.” Lichio stopped about six feet away, beside a short access-way leading to one of the secured doors. “Back up this corridor and then where? This place is a maze.”
“Back that way, round to the right and follow the corridor. You’ll reach the commercial hub. Cross it to reach your bay.”
The soldier turned away. His partner watched Lichio, covering with his rifle. Maybe there were only two; Lichio’s plans predated the change of administration. He primed the grenade, counted three, and tossed it.
“Back!” yelled the second soldier. He sent off a shot, but it was wild, and pulled his partner towards the guard-room.
Lichio dove to the right, into the niche. A dull explosion sounded; shrieks filled the air. He winced. It was a dirty way to fight. He lifted his head and scrambled to his feet. He snatched his blaster out.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around to face a huge soldier, at least as big as Silom had been. The access-door stood open, revealing an observation room beyond. Crap.
The soldier’s fist came at him, too quick to dodge. His head crashed against the wall, but he held on to his blaster – somehow – and brought it up in a low arc.
“It’s le Payne!” The soldier grabbed for Lichio but he kicked out, taking the soldier in the knee. It gave with a crunch, bringing the bigger man down, but a second soldier barrelled out of the room, blaster raised.
Now or never.
Lichio squeezed off three shots, glad of every close-combat course he’d taken. He took the first man cleanly, but the second had crouched in the shelter of the doorway, and shot at him.
Lichio dived, yelling as the beam brushed his arm. He rolled into a crouch and brought his blaster up. One chance to get out before the corridor was sealed. He fired. The soldier gave a strangled yell and lay still.
Alarms blared from the corridor. So much for subtle. Lichio ran. He hit the shattered security door and crashed through it into the night air. He sprinted away from the port, towards the tribal quarter, where he could get lost in the maze of streets.
Damn, he’d made a meal of that. There was no chance the coverage wouldn’t have picked up who he was, not with the soldier recognising him. Someone would be sure to put two and two together and came up with Kare. Not good.
He slowed and wove through the old section, refusing to give in to the urge to run, or hide. Head up, open and brazen, all the time. He skirted the tribal quarter’s red-stone walls, choosing alleys seemingly at random, but each cycle took him closer to the palace.
Finally, he reached a square, well-lit and full of restaurants, and stopped to catch his breath. There was no sign of any pursuit. He took out his comms unit, all the while watching the square. It connected a moment later and his shoulders sagged with relief at the familiar voice.
“Simone,” he said. “It’s me. Where are you?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The palace administration had shut down for the night. The only teams working were security and cleaning teams, making their way to their allocated zones. Kare passed a team dressed like himself and his squad. They had their heads down, thoroughly cowed, careful not to meet the eyes of any security. Under the Empress’ regime people knew their place. He remembered that from inheriting the palace from her.
His squad climbed the back staircase, their steps echoing. This was the side of Abendau palace rarely viewed; the dimly-lit access-ways that lay behind the façade of opulence. The air was cooler here, carried on a slight breeze from the desert, and he shivered. The stairwell reminded him of the medical wing attached to Omendegon – it had the same sense of hidden secrets, a lost place no one cared to acknowledge.
The squad reached the second floor. Hickson pushed through the security door and stopped to clear the squad’s work schedule with two security guards. They allowed the team to pass, but their eyes were sharp, their hold on their weapons professional, and it was all Kare could do not to hurry, for fear they’d recognise him even through the disguise. He slumped his shoulders and ducked his head instead.
They entered the Empress’ private section of the palace, and the hard flooring was replaced by soft, thick carpets. These outer chambers were mostly anterooms for private meetings, designed to impress, screaming wealth. He remembered his own refurbishments; the discussions with his finance chief had been long and drawn out, exhaustingly so, even though his décor was nowhere near as opulent as what he’d inherited.
He padded down the corridor. It seemed impossible he’d owned this place, that he’d lived here until his nightmares convinced him to build the compound and get out. Time shifted, bringing memories. He’d been born here, had suffered in its cells as nowhere else, had ruled from its throne room. Now, he was back to clean the place. A harsh laugh threatened to come, and he choked it away. He was going to clean this place like it had never been cleaned before.
The squad reached the last security door before the Empress’ private quarters. Security here would be tighter than the checks in the courtyard. He waited in line as each of the team had their IDs checked, their retinas recorded, their DNA confirmed against records. The lights were hot and it was easy to blame them for the sweat breaking on the back of his neck. If his records hadn’t been updated, this would be where his attack ended.
Gods, it must work; he’d checked it and checked it, going over parameter after parameter in the system.
He had the sudden urge to use the mesh to scan for his mother. He held it in check, imagining her turning on him the minute he did. He could face his mother, but not the guards as well. Despite temptation, he needed to bide his time. Even without the mesh, he could feel her, a coldness in the air, a sense of heaviness in his chest. He was damned if she’d get a chance to call the shots on him ever again.
He shuffled forwards, head down. He was a servant, in the palace of the Empress. He should be scared. He wondered if the servants who’d cleaned his chambers had been scared. He hoped not, but fear was a hard thing to unlearn, and Abendau had years of it to overcome.
“Hand.” The security guard didn’t look bored, as many of the palace staff did, but sharp. Only the best would be on duty at these doors, and it was impossible to tell if he was a real guard or one of the planted operatives. Kare held his hand out and waited as the DNA sequencer’s needle stabbed him, leaving a tiny red mark. The machine ran the results through the system, numbers on the screen falling as it searched for a match to his DNA. He found himself barely breathing.
“Look straight ahead.”
He stared at the retinal-scanner. Beyond, in the first room, those already cleared from his squad were splitting into their work teams. His mouth was dry. He willed the green light of the DNA sequencer to come up.
What if some last remnant of his old record remained? What if there was something added to the system since he’d been ousted, and his reprogramming had been discovered? He had to resist the urge to lift his hand and pull at his collar; his scar was too recognisable to take that chance.
A bleep. He tensed, sure the light would turn to red, but it changed to green.
“You’re clear.” The soldier gave him a hard push towards the rest of the squad. “Now get on with your work.”
Charming: manners were already deteriorating. He met Kym Woods’ eyes, hard and unflinching, and held back a smile.
The cleaning equipment with its concealed weaponry was being scanned, a task certainly being carried out by an operative – the equipment would never have passed otherwise. The agent took his time, occasionally going back to check an item before giving it the all-clear. His face was bland, unreadable; Simone had done a good job getting someone in this close, and the operative was doing a better one.
“They’re clear,” said the operative at last. “They can go through.”
The gilded doors at the top of the room opened. Gods, he knew those doors. He’d closed them behind him each night for years, before going to his room and facing his history, nightmare after nightmare, until morning came.
He forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, and calm himself. Tonight was different. He wasn’t here to sleep, or to relive Taluthna’s hellish playground. He was here to free himself, to move past what was done to him.
The doors had opened fully. Beyond, the final corridor stretched. Its walls were flocked in deep crimson, the colour of blood. The carpet was woven of gold thread.
At the end of the corridor, a final set of doors, grander than the ones he had just passed through, waited. Gods, he was close.
The brief sound of a scuffle made him turn back to the security room. The guard who’d carried out his DNA checks lay dead on the floor. The operative who’d scanned the equipment stood over the body. He met Kare’s eyes and gave a sharp nod. “Sir.”
Kare took a deep breath; this was it, the point of no return. He pulled off the wig and removed the prosthetic cheeks; the lenses could wait until later. Feeling more like himself, he stepped into the middle of the room. The second operative had sealed the section, and the rest of the squad were already dismantling the cleaning equipment to remove the weaponry from within.
Kare took a blaster and a phaser, and set both in hip-holsters. Two stun grenades were handed to him. He immediately felt better; powers were one thing, and he’d feel even better when he was back in the mesh, but nothing beat a blaster on your hip. He straightened and faced the squad; in minutes they’d transformed from a beaten-down cleaning crew
to the hard-eyed soldiers they were, professional and deadly.
“Team B,” Kare said. “As planned.”
Their corporal gave a sharp salute. This order, the confirmation that the attack would be carried out with his mother in situ, was the decision point. There would be no turning back, now. If the alarm was raised, this team would hold the door to this hall as long as possible. Already, the operative was running observations through the security holos; the door could be held as long as Kare needed it to be.
“Team A,” said Hickson. “Room-clearance.”
Four soldiers set off down the corridor, entering each room in turn, checking it, and moving on. They moved with practiced ease, one opening the door, another covering the two entering each room, flash-grenades at the ready. They worked their way down the corridor but, as expected, the anterooms were deserted.
Kare smiled, slightly smug: he’d known his mother wouldn’t want lackeys in her personal space. She wouldn’t trust anyone close to her except Phelps and her inner council. The thought of the bonus of Phelps as well as his mother cheered him.
He jerked his head at Kym. “Let’s go.”
She joined him and he had to smile. He might feel better armed, but for Kym it was a religion; she bristled with weaponry. The rifle she held appeared moulded against her, she held it so tightly. They walked to the gilded door at the far end of the corridor, past the open anterooms, Hickson’s team taking point.
Kare paused outside the door. From here, there were three rooms – a living area, a boardroom and her bedroom, with its huge window overlooking the city. A window he’d stood at, night after night, trying to know her city and palace and understand why she’d done what she had. He’d never found an answer.
