by E. C. Jarvis
“What is it?” he asked.
“My mother and father.” A lump caught in her throat. It was a copy of the cameo which had sat above the fireplace in her mother’s home for as long as she could remember. She’d taken it after her mother had died and put it in her own apartment. She’d spent her youth staring up at it, imagining a life which could never have been and wondering where her father was. Of all the fantastical thoughts she’d had, none of them ever came close to reality. She’d never dared to imagine her father as the mastermind of such a terrible plot, not after her mother had loved him so deeply. Yet, in spite of his penchant for dramatic scheming, he too had brought that cameo with him, throughout his travels, after all these years. Perhaps there was still some hope of finding a loving father beneath the layers of craziness.
“Focus,” Holt said, speaking into her ear, his lips almost touching, sending a shiver down her spine. He was right, as usual. This was not the time for reminiscing over what could have been or how tragic everything was. This was the time to build a plan and to hopefully forge a proper alliance with the one man who could get them all close to the President.
The desk had the only chair in the room. There was a bed with simple grey bedding, tucked between two large wardrobes bolted to the floor. She didn’t much like the idea of sleeping in the same bed in which her father had clearly slept, though as Kerrigan planted himself firmly and pointedly into the seat behind the desk, she realised this cabin wasn’t necessarily going to end up hers anyway.
It felt odd, wanting to fight for a position she neither deserved nor truly desired—to fight for a room she didn’t want to sleep in and command over the ship she didn’t want to have. Yet the notion of giving in and turning everything over to Kerrigan just because he felt entitled to take charge didn’t sit well in her thoughts. Everything felt at odds, and as Holt perched on the edge of her father’s bed, she realised that sensation wasn’t going to recede any time soon.
Cid stood opposite Holt, leaning his shoulders against the wall. He couldn’t have crossed his arms tighter across his chest if he’d tried, the silk of his awful yellow shirt bunching up around his chest. The door closed shut behind them and Larissa found Friar Narry had joined them as well. He stayed by the door, leaving her standing in the middle, alone.
“You can’t sit in that seat until I give up my position as Captain,” she said to Kerrigan, squaring her shoulders, starting strong.
“You already gave that up when you crashed the last ship of which you were Captain. I was there when you did it. If you want me out of the seat, come force me out of it.”
Holt stood from the bed, his hands balled into fists. Perhaps starting so strong wasn’t such a great idea. She stepped forwards until her thighs touched the desk and waved a placating hand at Holt.
“Fine, you can keep the seat, keep the cabin, keep the whole damn ship. If you want us to work with you to get this thing back to Daltonia, you need to start talking. You can’t pilot this ship all that way, on your own. I don’t think you’d want to go back ashore to find any Eptorans willing to help you either, so let’s stop with the games and get to why we’re here.”
“Very well. I want assurances before we start.”
“Oh?”
“If I am to divulge National secrets, information pertaining to our Government, things that may not be…palatable to everyone, I don’t want you people rushing to criticise nor blame me for them. In fact, there are far too many people in this cabin. I agreed to share information with you, Larissa, and you alone.”
“Fuck sake,” Cid said, pushing off from the wall. “Come here, go there, do this, don’t do that. Like some bloody dog,” he muttered as he headed towards the door.
“Cid,” Larissa shouted, stopping him in his tracks. “Here.” She threw the Anthonium to him. He fumbled to untangle his arms from his shirt and just managed to catch it before it hit the floor. “Can you break it in half, keep one half for the engine and the other for…me?”
He looked down at the stone, jiggling it between his fingers for a moment. “Sure, I can manage that.”
“Good, and try getting some rest…if you want to, of course.”
Cid lifted the Anthonium to his forehead in a sort of salute before heading to the door.
“I thought I might help to act as a mediator,” Friar Narry said. Larissa turned back to Kerrigan, who shook his head. She offered Narry an apologetic shrug. “Very well. A rest wouldn’t go amiss.”
Larissa pivoted on the spot slowly. Holt still perched on the bed, staring directly at her. Kerrigan leaned forward on the chair, glaring daggers at Holt. She chewed on her teeth, silently begging the Gods to just let Kerrigan allow Holt to stay, or even to let Holt leave without argument. She knew that if she asked, he would go, probably, but he would be angry with her for it and the whole thing would add yet another level of stress to their frayed relationship. With every small step forward, they seemed to hit a cataclysmic explosion, rocking them yards backwards. It was tiresome, to say the least. Holt must have wanted to stay, to hear the details of the plot his poor younger brother had gotten caught up in and for which he’d died. She wanted him to stay and hear it too, and then she hoped one day he would open up and tell her more about himself and his past so she could learn how he came to be so…Holt. No doubt Kerrigan would make her promise to keep the details a secret, even from Holt, and she would do so. It was not in her nature to break a promise of that magnitude.
“Holt stays,” she said with dogged determination, surprising herself with how authoritative it sounded. By the way Kerrigan’s eyebrow raised, she surprised him too.
“Fine. The guard dog stays, but if he comes swinging punches at me, don’t be surprised when I knock him on his ass.”
“I can’t promise he won’t swing punches, but I concede that you have a right to defend yourself if he does.” It felt odd speaking about Holt as though he weren’t there when he was sitting and staring right at her. Though they’d moved over the ocean, the air still held an Eptoran warmth, except Holt seemed to be sending the temperature in the cabin plummeting to icy cool conditions with one look.
“So, where would you like me to start?”
“Let’s go back to Doctor Orother.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, regaining composure, then listened as Kerrigan began.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The grey bedsheet fabric seemed to be made of nails—nails jutting upwards and spiking straight through the thin silk material of his trousers and pricking his legs. Holt ignored the odd sensation as best he could. He’d chosen to sit there and wasn’t about to admit defeat, awful material notwithstanding. He felt inexplicably angry. He was angry at feeling so tired and drained, as though he’d just climbed a mountain and swam through an icy river. His body felt like it wanted to shut down, and only his bloody-minded attitude kept him awake. He was angry at himself for needing to sit down when a gentleman would offer Larissa the seat. He was angry at Kerrigan for doing the same and just about everything else that Kerrigan was doing. Most of all, he was angry at not being in control of the situation.
Larissa was doing well, better than expected, though she always surprised everyone with her strength, even herself. She needed nothing more than a little push in the right direction on occasion; the rest she could handle herself. His heart ached when he watched her, staring Kerrigan down, refusing to shrink away, determined to find answers for herself and for him. He was proud of how far she’d come and wanted desperately to see how much further she could go, but with the way his body was starting to feel, he wasn’t sure if he’d survive the night, let alone to the end of their journey.
“Orother was a means to an ends for the President,” Kerrigan said, lacing his fingers together atop the desk and leaning forwards, staring directly at Larissa, using a certain tone of voice. Holt knew the stance well, even if Kerrigan was sitting down. It was something that every senior officer did when giving a briefing or a private lecture to their subordina
tes. To put them at ease in one sense and on edge in another. For her part, Larissa looked unfazed by it. Perhaps her lack of military background helped in that regard.
“The extent of the end?” she asked.
“The President wanted weapons, anything and everything he could get his hands on to gain the upper hand. Professor Watt’s Machine, for one thing, though I understand the Professor and the President fell out and argued over many things. As the Professor didn’t cooperate, the President felt he was a traitor and thus felt justified in allowing Orother to go after the man.”
“Before that,” Larissa interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“Orother was testing his mind-control device on people.”
Holt shifted his attention to Kerrigan, who leaned back in the seat, moving his hands off the desk. For one split second, Kerrigan’s eyes flicked up directly at Holt before focusing back on Larissa. Holt’s skin bristled. Suddenly, the uncomfortable fabric digging into his legs felt good. He revelled in the discomfort; someone could stab him all over with a million actual nails right now and he would almost enjoy it.
“It was meant to be tested on captured Eptoran spies, but every one of the buggers we caught committed suicide before we could even perform basic interrogation. We were getting desperate. Orother and the Cleric had brought his device to a workable standard by testing beggars and harlots, whatever undesirables he could get his hands on. But he said it only went so far. People who have lived a life in the gutter have generally lower mental barriers. He wanted to test it on more mentally robust people.”
“Go on...” Larissa urged, placing her own hands atop the desk.
“General Gott sanctioned the use of military personnel. Orother assured us that the device, whilst invasive, would not cause a significant number of casualties.”
“A significant number?”
“He said no more than ten percent would die from the procedure.”
“Ten percent,” Larissa repeated.
Holt watched her carefully. She wasn’t looking at him, but he could feel something, as if she were mentally forcing herself to not turn. She was pressing Kerrigan for details that didn’t matter, that weren’t pertinent to the mission, for his sake. He was torn between wanting to kiss her and a desire to shake some sense into her for it.
“Turns out that ten percent was somewhere nearer to a hundred percent. The only difference was how quickly some of them succumbed.”
“How many victims?”
“Volunteers, and I don’t know the numbers, but it wasn’t that many. Once we realised the reality of the situation, the General put a stop to it, but by then, Orother didn’t care. He said the device was ready and that was that.”
“How many other special projects were there?”
Kerrigan shifted in his seat again. It was a good question, but already Holt could see the Colonel searching the room, his eyes roaming as his brain raced to make up a believable lie.
“Whatever answer he gives will be a lie,” Holt said.
“I know,” Larissa responded, “but I’d like to see what he comes up with.”
“Do you really think I’m going to share everything with you?” Kerrigan asked.
“So far, you’ve only told us what we already knew. Giving me extra detail is a start, and a name. General Gott?” She looked at Holt—a question for him directly.
“A new name to add to my list,” he said.
“Not an easy man to kill,” Kerrigan offered.
“What about you, Colonel?” Larissa straightened her back. “Where do you stand on all these things? You think it’s all right for the men in Government to sanction such awful methodology? If what you say is true, that they only expected ten percent of those used to die, can you really be so cold-hearted to say those ten percent are justified?”
“If it means we can win the war swiftly and save the lives of tens of thousands of people? Yes. These are the decisions those in charge are faced with every day. It’s part of having a position of responsibility. To sacrifice one soldier to save an entire squad, to allow a town full of people to die in the name of safety for the rest of the population. Nobody enjoys making those decisions, nobody smiles as they sign the paperwork condemning a few for the sake of many, but that is what we do.”
“And did it not occur to anyone, not you, nor General Gott, not even the President, to go to Eptora and speak with the Empress directly?”
“It wouldn’t have done any good. They mistrust us as much as we do them.”
“She trusts me,” Larissa said, “and I gave her little reason to.”
“Yes, well, had we known you were the key to everything, I’m sure the President would have used you far sooner.” The sarcastic sneer in his tone wasn’t lost on anyone.
“By your reasoning, you should do everything in your power to protect me and to work with me.”
“Oh?”
“If the Empress trusts me, if I can put a stop to the war, even if it means…removing the President and this General Gott, and whoever else is responsible in order to save the entire nation of Daltonia, shouldn’t that be your focus? Or are you only willing to sign off on sacrificial schemes when the names on the list are unknown and unimportant to you?”
Kerrigan placed his hands on the desk, fingers slayed wide, as though he were bracing himself physically. Holt felt a smile tug the corner of his lip. Once again, she’d proven herself quick-witted enough to outsmart men who thought themselves superior. She was becoming rather adept at it, in fact.
“You’re not going to concede command to me, are you?” Kerrigan said after a lengthy silence.
“Not entirely, no. Unless...”
“Unless?”
“You agree to work with us. To follow my plan—our plan.” She waved towards Holt.
He wasn’t sure why she was including him. He was so exhausted that the idea of coming up with a plan was the last thing on his mind. Still, he remained silent and unmoving, maintaining an expressionless visage, hiding his thoughts, his pain, as best he could.
“And if I don’t agree?”
“We’ll drop you off somewhere in Daltonia, somewhere far away from anywhere else, and carry on without you.”
“And what, Miss Markus, is your plan?”
“Tomorrow.”
Kerrigan drummed his fingers on the desk. “Tomorrow?”
“Or maybe even the day after. We all need to rest, to recover, and I want time to think.”
“You mean you don’t have a plan.”
“In the meantime,” Larissa continued, ignoring him, “if we are attacked, or threatened in any military fashion, you may give command to my crew and I will instruct them to follow. I concede that, in some circumstances, you may be better placed to make decisions than I am.”
Kerrigan snorted at that and arose from the chair, stepping around the desk. He placed himself between Holt and Larissa, putting his back to Holt, then bent forward. Holt stood, his head feeling woozy as though he’d drunk a barrel-full of ale. He heard Kerrigan whisper something to Larissa, then turn to leave. Torn between wanting to punch Kerrigan in the face for being so familiar with her and the overwhelming sensation that he might pass out at any moment, he just stood there instead and tried to focus on staying upright.
“I still have questions for you, Kerrigan,” Larissa called out to him as he opened the door to leave.
“Tomorrow,” Kerrigan said.
The door slammed shut. Larissa turned around, her face contorting as though she’d seen something horrific. It took a moment before Holt realised that he was the horrific-looking sight. He slumped back down onto the bed. Larissa rushed over, grabbing the back of his neck and gently guiding him to lie down. It went against his nature to allow himself to be handled in such a way, but as he felt his veins crying out for energy, there was nothing he could do to fight it.
She placed her free hand on his forehead, muttered something quietly. He opened his mouth to respond but no words came ou
t. His eyes were closed and he didn’t even have the strength to will them open. The warmth of her hands on his head and neck disappeared. Footsteps sounded across the cabin floor, soft yet swift, then the door clicked shut.
His mind descended into a tumbling vortex of nonsense. Visions raced over and over, half-remembered conversations, sometimes pictures so vivid it was as if he were reliving the nightmare. On and on things rushed through. Hours could have passed, or even days—he had no clue anymore. After a while, Cid’s voice stood out amongst the myriad of nonsense, rough and harsh words barked in his usual angry tone, but Holt couldn’t make sense of them and he certainly couldn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if he was asleep or just passed out. He had the sense of floating, as though he were a ship on the ocean, slowly rising and dipping in distressing repetition. A burning smell tickled his nostrils and added panic to the mixture of emotions running circles around his head, reminding him of being trapped in a cell, waiting to burn to death.
Still, he could do nothing to react. It wasn’t until he felt a sharp pain in his arm that his eyes finally snapped open.
Larissa was propped on the bed beside him, his arm in her hand. She pushed a syringe into his skin, the needle stuck in his vein, a long stream of sickly, off-coloured pinkish blood running down his pale skin. As she pressed the plunger down, he felt the burning heat rushing through his veins, up his arm, to his shoulder into his heart, then spreading out in all directions. He gritted his teeth and let out a scream at the agonising pain which followed. He thrashed out wildly, not caring as the syringe snapped, leaving the needle embedded in his arm, not noticing as he knocked Larissa to the floor. His body was no longer under his command, limbs and torso flailing wildly in reaction to the drug. Muscles twitching, teeth grinding, heart racing—until the thrum of intensity dulled and he felt himself edging back to normalcy—at least the new version of normalcy for him.
