At a nearby police station they were not fingerprinted or interviewed, but were placed, mercifully, together in a small cell. There was an open toilet, and two stone slabs for beds. A thin soup was their dinner. The man who served it said they would appear in court the following morning for arraignment on the charges. He picked up their empty bowls later and turned off the lights, leaving them in pitch-blackness.
Tatjana sobbed part of the night away before anger took over and she began attempts at contacting her family. But there were no friendly voices or thoughts to comfort them.
CHAPTER 17
Azar Khalil made a telephone call two hours before the strike. The assault team had already left for the palace and disturbances had begun in the streets.
Joseph himself answered the call. “Yes?”
“Joseph, it has begun. Today is the day we take back our freedom.”
“I know. The others are in the streets. You said there would be special orders for me.”
“Orders for my most dedicated Soldier of The Church. I’m asking much of you; your life will be at extreme risk.”
“I will gladly give my life for The Church.”
“Only if there is no other way to take the life of He Who Opposes The Church. The assault team is on its way. My hope is they’ll accomplish the task. You’ll be a backup, coming in from a different direction. You’ll be on your own, without a support group. The Source will guide you. Your task is to search for and kill the Emperor of all Gan. You must first be equipped properly. I’ll tell you where to go for that. The people there will give you your route into the palace and the best places to intercept your target once the attack begins.”
“I’m ready. Where should I go?”
Azar told him, then, “You will enter the palace in two hours, my friend. Know that the blessings of The Source are upon you, and if you must die today you’ll be taken into His loving arms for eternity. Blessed be The Source.”
“Blessed be,” said Joseph, and hung up.
I could use another dozen like him, thought Azar, and called his driver. “Get the car ready. I want to go to the club for lunch and a sauna. And I won’t be taking any calls the rest of the morning.”
*
The demonstration came as no surprise to the Emperor of all Gan. He’d been anticipating it for weeks, and his spies were well located, taking pictures of everyone in the crowd. It was orderly enough, no reason for a violent response, but his soldiers lined the fence around the palace, and the regional guard base a few miles away had been put on alert.
Khalid Osman watched the demonstration from his office window for only minutes before growing bored with it. “If they want martial law rescinded, all they have to do is turn over the assassins to me,” he complained to an aid, then went back to work at his desk.
Outside, the crowd waved placards protesting travel restrictions, martial rule, brutal police, and isolation from other world-states. There was no chanting or singing; thousands of people marched shoulder to shoulder around the fenced periphery of the palace in a show of solidarity.
Near the rear of the palace grounds, away from the main street, a van pulled up, but was blocked by the moving crowd from reaching the entrance where deliveries were made. The driver remained patient for a few minutes, then began honking his horn. A few in the crowd gestured obscenely at him, but did not make way.
Finally a dozen troops came out of the gate and pushed the crowd back on two sides so the van could get through. It was a regular and familiar enough delivery from a catering service in the city. The van pulled slowly up to the gate, was just beginning to pass through when suddenly the side panels of the vehicle popped out as if struck from inside. Men dressed and hooded in black were in the van, and they opened fire on both troops and citizens. Brass scattered as bullets shredded cloth, flesh and bone. Troops standing nearby were the first to die. The crowd panicked and people trampled each other trying to get away. Other troops converged on the area and were cut down as their assailants poured out of the van and ran towards the delivery entrance of the palace. A single shot from a heavy shoulder weapon destroyed the door, and the terrorists were inside. Troops went in after them, but were cut down until their bodies piled up, blocking the doorway. Other troops retreated a few steps, but continued firing into the building as the crowd ran away, leaving behind both dead and wounded citizens.
Khalid was concentrating hard on a speech when he heard the screams of the crowd. His office was on the second floor overlooking the main entrance to the palace, and at first he didn’t hear the gunfire. A strong shockwave passed beneath his feet, and then he heard the thrup of rapid-fire weapons coming from inside the building, not outside. His office door flew open and four troopers were there behind an officer who shouted at him, “We’re under attack, sire! We have to get you out of here,” then into a throat mike, “We’re using the south tunnel. Get a car there immediately.”
Khalid was on his feet and out the door without further encouragement. He sprinted down the hall to the stairwell, but they couldn’t go down. Troops were downstairs and opened fire on something. One of them fell as bullets splattered a wall.
“Keep going!” yelled the officer, and Khalid sprinted again. They ran past two offices to a narrow staircase at the end of the hall and went down in single-file, troops front and back of him. Khalid knew where they were going, had practiced escape drills there with his guards several times, but never under fire.
They made it to ground level. A hundred yards to go, through two offices, then the bookcase and—
Bullets tore into the walls on either side of them. Two troopers went down, one howling, the other dead before he hit the floor. Men in black fired at them from the end of the hall. The officer pulled a sphere from his belt and flicked a switch on it before lobbing it far down the hall. Acrid smoke erupted there, and there was the sound of men coughing and gagging.
They ran again, through two offices and into a third. “Stay here,” the officer ordered his two remaining troops at the doorway. “Cover us.”
Inside the office a bookcase swung aside, behind it a door. The officer went first, gun in hand, Khalid following. A room used for storage, but a door there opened on a tunnel to the outside, where hopefully a car waited for them. Khalid turned to swing the bookcase closed behind them and started to close the door.
There was a sound behind him. He jerked his head around in time to see a man stand up from behind a packing crate and raise a weapon towards him. The man was slender, had a short beard on a chiseled face and wild eyes. He was dressed in the robe of an outlaw priest of the underground church. He raised his weapon to fire at the Emperor of all Gan.
The officer was faster. He fired three times in rapid succession. The weapon spun from the priest’s hand and he fell to his knees, his left hand grabbing his chest, his right hand scrabbling at his stomach. A beeping sound came from him.
“Who let you in here? Tell me and you’ll die quickly,” said the officer.
Blood oozed from the man’s mouth. “All Power to The Source,” he snarled, and struck his stomach hard with his fist.
The last thing Khalid Osman ever saw was the first flash of the explosion.
The steam was laced with Eucalyptus. Azar breathed deeply and paused to sip an icy drink through a straw. His colleagues had been with him until minutes ago, and were now showering. They’d talked about little things, including how to approach the Emperor in urging him into easing military restrictions on the general populace before demonstrations escalated to rioting. They’d all agreed that as long as Osman was supportive of the business empires they’d built it was best to keep him in place. They were not blind to the possibility of a coup, for Osman was long hated in many corners for his openly oppressive practices. A coup by the military might be tolerable, as long as the new leader was supportive of the powerful few who drove the economy of the planet. But a coup by the underground church could not be tolerated; their views were anti-materialistic at best
and socialistic at the worst. A religious dictator would quickly bring the planet to ruin.
During many quiet conversations in clouds of fragrant steam, these few men who controlled the wealth of Gan had made plans for all political possibilities, and although the others did not yet know it, the day of their decision-making was at hand. While the others showered and dressed, Azar sat naked on hot stone, breathed soothing vapors and waited for news.
It came in the form of an attendant, who gave him a note in a sealed envelope. It had been delivered to the reception desk of the spa. Azar read it, replaced it in the envelope and closed his eyes. He sat that way for several minutes. Externally he was a man in quiet meditation. Internally he was roaming the great web of a common consciousness extending over many light years. He looked for a special signature, and found it.
Good news. The Emperor of Gan is dead. It’ll be blamed on the underground church and agents from Galena. Everything’s in place for my campaign, and I’ll begin immediately. Are you ready to move?
Yes. Anytime you wish.
Then do it now. I want the boy dead before he receives news about Gan. No warning. Let me know when it’s finished.
I will. All Power to The Source.
And to those who serve him.
Azar opened his eyes, then left the steam room to tell his colleagues the terrible news about their Emperor.
CHAPTER 18
Is it really necessary to do this every night? I’m tired,” said Trae.
“It only takes a few minutes. Come on, get it over with.” Scanning disks dangled on cables hanging from Petyr’s hands, and he gestured at a chair.
Trae sat down in the chair, felt cold metal on his head, heard a buzz and click, and it was done. “Another day, another cube,” he quipped.
“Oh, I periodically put a bunch of them on one cube.”
“But you send something out nearly every day.”
“Yep. Have to keep your work up-to-date. I admit it’s a bit redundant with all the records we have from your father, but you’re adding new ideas to it.”
Trae smiled. “Which father are we talking about?”
“The old one,” said Petyr, and smiled back.
“Don’t you feel weird being treated like my bodyguard?”
“It’s what I was, what I am. What’s a father for?”
“You’re supposed to give me sage advice about women and stuff. Send me to my room when I’m bad.”
“I can do that. Have you found a woman I need to worry about?”
“Not yet, but I wish I had. I’m attracted to Myra, but I’m a kid to her. She’s in her thirties.”
“She looks pretty good to me,” said Petyr, and you might be older than she is if you count the years right. It’s mental age that really counts for us. We can change bodies whenever we want to.”
“So make me thirty-seven,” said Trae, “Maybe Myra will notice me.”
“Okay, I exaggerated. Arrangements have to be made. At least we’re not among the purists who insist on exact clones and want to start all over again. We can use anyone’s clone, and pick an age.”
“All right, I want to be thirty-seven tomorrow. Let’s do it.” Trae was kidding, and his father knew it.
“Too fast. For that age you could be walking around in a few months. The younger the clone the longer it takes for reloads. When you died the first time it took around fifteen years to really get you back together again, and that was with structural modifications to your own clone. Your other father had a bank of them.”
“Where?”
“Can’t tell you that, Trae. Won’t tell you that. I doubt we’ll ever use those facilities again, anyway. And by the way, what makes you think Myra isn’t attracted to you?”
“I’ve asked her out for coffee or lunch I don’t know how many times. She’s always busy.”
“Maybe she is, but she’s certainly spent enough time talking to you since the first night we were here.”
“What?” Trae felt his face flush.
“You think I don’t hear, every other night? I manage to tune it out quick, but it’s tempting to eves-drop.”
“She hasn’t given me her name. All she does is say hi and ask me about my day, and how I like it here.”
“It’s Myra, all right, and she’s not just amusing herself. She likes you, Trae. I saw it in her expression the first day we met her. You, of course, were oblivious to it. That’s one of the dangers of being so focused, son. You don’t notice what’s going on around you.”
Trae felt suddenly warm. “You haven’t called me that for weeks. It’s nice to hear it once in a while.”
Petyr reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice to say it, but it’s a slip of the tongue. Have to watch that, new feelings, and all. I like it. But as far as the world is concerned, your father is in another universe right now, straightening out who knows what. I’m just here minding the store. I’m still your bodyguard. Just because we’re away from Gan doesn’t mean we’re safe. I wouldn’t put it past Osman to send a hit team after us.”
“I thought we were secure here.”
“Not at all. It’s an open society with a porous border, and the corporate police don’t even know who you are. Don’t dwell on it; let me do the watching. You do the research. How are things going?”
“Very fast. Everyone is so surprised about it. I told them father had passed on a lot of things to me, but they don’t seem to believe it. We already have a design for energy storage, but it scares me to think of riding in that ship. It’s a toroid with a billion wrappings of superconductor in structurally alternating layers to keep a zero field and net current. There’s no limit to the current we can store, and we’ll use beamed microwave power to initially charge it. One break in a single layer and the conductor can go normal. The whole ship will vaporize in a flash.”
“Okay, but can you store enough energy?”
“Enough for a local folding of space-time and some short jumps. Going through the brane is another matter; we don’t know if a small portal can be made in a stable configuration just using ship’s energy. I’m doing the simulations now. Myra has helped some. I’ve never met anyone who can reduce things to geometry like she can.”
“Beauty and brains is a deadly combination,” said Petyr, and Trae blushed.
Petyr played with his memory cubes, condensing data into a few that he put into small boxes and labeled carefully. These would be gone somewhere the next morning; Trae never knew where. Trae watched another play from the video library in their suite, but it was an historical thing and quickly bored him. His eyelids grew heavy and he went to bed before Petyr had even finished playing with his cubes. More bored than sleepy, it seemed, for sleep did not want to come. He lay there awake, yet relaxed, for nearly an hour, and was suddenly aware of a presence keeping him that way, a presence sensed in some recess of his mind.
Hello? Maybe it was the girl again. It had been three nights since their last chat.
No answer, but the presence was still there. Why don’t you answer? I know you’re there.
The response, when it came, seemed a shy one. I see you too. You’re the missionary’s son; we’d heard you were dead.
Who’s we? thought Trae, immediately on guard and masking his thoughts with random memories.
Friends, if you’re who you seem to be. It’s good for you to be cautious; your family has enemies.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s the missionary’s son? Now there was another presence in his mind, two people now, and both of them Immortals.
Another time. I’m not an enemy, but they exist. Be careful of your identity. I can help, but—later.
Gone, but still Trae felt like someone was watching him, peering into his mind. He tried to blank his mind completely, but failed. Images kept popping back into it, even images of the caverns on Gan.
You’ll get better at it. I don’t know the other guy. Might be a friend, maybe not. You can never be certain. Is that wh
ere you lived before you came here? Is that where they hid you?
It was so strong that Trae sat up and looked around the room to see if anyone was in there with him. But this time the presence seemed familiar.
The girl? He lay back on the bed, put his hands over his eyes. I have no privacy. Who are these people jumping in and out of my head?
I’m sorry. Maybe this isn’t a good time.
It was her. I can’t have a private thought on this planet.
Yes you can. You just haven’t learned to mask yourself well enough yet. You forget, and leak things all the time, even about your work. Stop that.
You know all about it. You’re Myra, aren’t you? Why are you teasing me? Why should you care?
I’m not teasing you. And you seem lonely. I’m just trying to be a friend.
Someone else just said that, and I have no idea who.
I scared him away. You should thank me. He didn’t identify himself. Don’t talk to anyone without knowing who they are. I have the feeling you’re in danger, and I don’t like it.
A pause, then, Well, are you in danger?
I didn’t think so until tonight.
So you must be dangerous to someone else.
Stop it, Myra, you know who I am.
A missionary’s son, that’s what he said. Why would anyone want to hurt the son of a missionary? And why would another Immortal warn him about it?
I don’t have the slightest idea.
Well think about it. Maybe some other Immortal cares about you, an Immortal with a lot of life experience with the tricks that can be played. Don’t be so quick to talk to people. And I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood.
And she was gone. Now wait a minute! thought Trae, but it was too late, and he’d made her angry.
Branegate Page 15
