"The difference is that Katrina presumably consented to the birth of this child. This wasn't some half-baked plot. Ask yourself, how is this different from finding that Katrina had given birth to a son naturally?"
Julian frowned. Callandre look deeply troubled.
"Don't get me wrong," said Trillian. "I'll use every gram of anti-Clan prejudice against him. I'll intimate that he's a genetic freak, a monster. I don't believe he's the rightful heir to the throne. But he does have a case."
Julian shook his head. "The Lyran people will never accept a Clanner as their leader."
"Been to Rasalhague lately?" snapped Trillian. "How about the Raven Alliance?" She drew a grave breath. "Don't underestimate Alaric, either of you. If he is Katrina's son, and if she's been tutoring him, he might understand Lyran politics better than anyone alive. He'll win the people's gratitude for standing against Malvina Hazen."She reached out and touched the screen, her fingertips brushing across Alaric's image.
"And he's a Steiner."
Project Sunlight, Genève
Terra, Fortress Republic
Tucker Harwell held a little drive in his hand. Its casing was translucent green plastic and it was no bigger than a man's thumbnail.
Such a small thing to destroy a man's dreams.
It contained answers, no, the answer: who triggered Gray Monday and why. Oh, it hadn't been written down in a single, convenient place, but Tucker had used Alexi's access code to access the records of The Republic's security directorate, to read through the information that Republic agents and knights and paladins had collected.
Enough information to put it all together.
An amber light blinked on his screen and then disappeared. They're monitoring me.
Tucker drew a deep breath and stood, suddenly understanding what had to be done with a clarity he'd rarely experienced in his life. He closed his hand into a fist around the little drive, protecting the terrible secret.
And then he walked out of his office, out of his life and disappeared into the crowds of people that haunted Geneva's streets.
The Hall of Archons, The Court of the Great Father
Alliago City, Gienah
Wolf Empire
Alaric and Katrina strolled down the replica of Tharkad's Hall of Archons, sunlight slanting through the great peaked windows, painting bright white squares on the dark green carpet. The hallway smelled like rich, lustrous wood and citrus polish.
His mother had been furious when Alaric returned Tharkad to Trillian Steiner. He had originally decided to build this replica of her beloved hall as a peace offering.
But he found he liked it, too.
Katrina's eyes settled on each portrait as they walked along the long hallway. The portraits were not replicas. Alaric had brought those from Tharkad. As she studied the paintings, he studied her. She was dressed like the princess she once was: in a flowing white silk dress, her waist belted in gold, her hair tied back with white ribbons, its straw color hinting at the bright yellow it had once been.
For once her face was unguarded. She was illuminated by joy's brilliant light. But if her joy shined out brightly, it cast a dark shadow.
Her lip curled when she saw Victor's portrait. "This will come down," she snarled.
Alaric said nothing. He loved his mother and wished for her happiness.
But he would not take down his father's portrait.
He had made his own adjustments to the line of paintings, taking down Vedet's portrait and replacing it with Melissa's. Alaric had fought alongside Vedet during the campaign against the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. He knew Vedet to be a fool and a deeply dishonorable man.
Melissa's rule had also been disastrous, but in the end she had stayed behind to stand for her people when she could have easily run. Alaric would honor her spirit, if not her actual accomplishments.
And soon, his own portrait would be added to the long line.
Katrina stopped to stare up at her own portrait, her eyes shining, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight light. "What might have been," she whispered. "If only—"
Alaric stood by her side for a long moment, allowing her to savor the moment. After a long time she turned, reached up and touched his face. "My son. "I thank you for this gesture, though—" her voice grew cold, "—it would have made far more sense to keep Tharkad itself."
Alaric bowed his head. "I am glad of your pleasure. And ... I wish to ask for your counsel."
She smiled. "Of course."
They walked down the hallway, drawing near its end.
"I am trying to decide what to do with Anastasia Kerensky. She is a Trueborn Wolf, the only person within our Clan with the skill and the determination to challenge me as I challenged Seth. If I send her away, might she not grow into a threat to my power as Malvina Hazen did to Jana Pryde? But if I keep her close, will she not gain allies among the ruling council?"
Katrina nodded. "You already know the answer, my son. You must kill her and kill her now. While she is still a bondsman. Before she has the opportunity to gain support."
At that moment, Anastasia Kerensky stepped into the hallway, her dark red hair pulled back into a pony tail, wearing a simple gray jumpsuit without rank or insignia as befitted a bondsman, the three white cords still looped around her wrist.
Alaric drew the silver blade at his hip. Anastasia froze. Their eyes met.
Then he pivoted and plunged the knife deep into Katrina's chest.
His mother's eyes widened in shock. Alaric took her in his arms, his stomach twisted inside him, his throat suddenly tight. He felt moisture leaking from his eyes. Tears.
This is what it means to cry.
"I am so sorry, mother," he whispered. "But Anastasia is no threat to me. She will be my strong right arm. I think she is a threat to you. By telling me to kill her, you put your position above mine. And you are too dangerous for me to allow that. By telling me to kill her, you really told me to kill you."
A tear of dark blood trickled from Katrina's mouth. Her blue, blue eyes locked on Alaric's. "I ... am ... great."
"Aff" said Alaric. "You are great—and that is why you had to die."
* * *
Anastasia Kerensky stood over Alaric as he held his dying mother, her heart pounding in her chest. For an instant she had believed that Alaric meant to kill her.
But now she saw she had been wrong—in so many ways.
She sawthat he had acted with the ruthless necessity of Vlad Ward and the cunning insight of Katherine Steiner-Davion.
But it was the tears that won her over. There was a touch of nobility in this man. Ironically, it was compassion that would make him the most dangerous warrior in all human space.
Anastasia knelt and bowed her head. "My Khan," she whispered.
Alaric turned to look at her, his blue eyes locked on her face. Then he stepped towards her. Without a word, he took the knife still stained with Katrina's blood and cut the bond cords from Anastasia's wrist.
The Streets of Genève
Terra, Fortress Republic
14 September 3143
Tucker carried a copy of La Tribune de Genève under his arm and he stopped at a flower cart to buy a bunch of lovely yellow daffodils. Trying to look like a tourist.
He glanced behind him.
Caught a flicker of movement as the man looked away. He was tall and slim, his well-tanned arms cabled with muscles. He wore expensive sunglasses, silvered, so Tucker couldn't see his eyes, a tasteful white-gold chain necklace over a dark blue polo and white cotton slacks. His raven hair was slicked back and arranged in a two hundred-stone haircut. He could have been a rich tourist—no doubt that was exactly what he was supposed to look like.
But Tucker had seen the man before as he had purchased some oranges and a trout in the market.
The man said something to a jewelry vendor. The vendor pointed in the direction opposite Tucker and the sleek man walked off. Which meant the man was a tourist after all.
Or he had just passe
d off his target to another Republic agent.
The hairs rose all along the back of Tucker's neck.
Tucker bowed his head to the flower vendor and said "Thank you," in halting French. He picked a direction at random and walked quickly off, brisk enough to cover some ground, but not quite fast enough to attract attention. His shoes clicked against the cobblestone road.
At first Tucker believed he was being too paranoid. Now he was beginning to believe that he couldn't be paranoid enough.
A warning rumble of thunder rolled across the iron sky. Rain? Was it supposed to rain today?
He had acted quickly, using a public terminal to hack his bank, transferring the balance of his account into another account and then withdrawing it from an ATM before anyone could trace the transaction. So he had money.
For as long as it would last.
The question was what to do next? He couldn't risk showing his face in a maglev station or a drop port. He couldn't buy or rent a car. They'd be looking for him. So he rented a room in a dirty little hotel where roaches darted into the corners every time he snapped on a light and prostitutes plied their trade noisily in the next room.
He couldn't go back there now.
No loss.
The rain started as a drizzle, spreading great wet splotches across his Tribune.
He wanted to call his family, wanted to talk to his father. But of course they'd be waiting for that. What did you do when the authorities knew every move you might make?
It rained harder now, pelting him, gluing his clothes to his body, turning his paper into a soggy mess. He dropped it in the street and ducked down an alley, sheltering beneath a fire escape that kept most of the rain off.
What should he do now? Where could he possibly go?
A sudden actinic flash of blue-white light, ignited the world, followed almost instantly by the sharp crack of near thunder.
Tucker shivered. That was right on top of me.
Another flash, followed by thunder's deep, angry voice.
Only this time the incandescent light revealed a shape in the mouth of the alleyway. Tucker's right hand closed around his—
(slug thrower)
—flowers. He looked down. Daffodils. All he held were cheerful yellow daffodils.
"W-who's there?" Tucker asked.
And then she walked out of the shadow. He could barely see her in the storm's half-light, but it was enough. He recognized the planes of her face, the spiky-short hair, the eyes. And one more thing.
The weapon in her hand.
"Oh, Tuck," Alexi whispered, "why couldn't you just leave it alone?"
"It's not my job to keep your secrets," he said bitterly.
"It's just history," she said. "It doesn't have anything to do with us, or solving the blackout. "It's just history."
"You lied to me, Alexi. You never really cared for me. All this, our apartment, our love—" he choked on the last word, swallowed and shook his head. "All of it was just a way to keep me from learning the truth."
Alexi swallowed. He could see the tension in the lines of her face. The grief. "No, Tuck," she said in a strangled voice. "I loved you, love you. But Paladin Sorenson asked me to-"
"Don't talk to me about paladins and knights," he roared. "Don't rest your argument on the broken integrity of your grand Republic."
"Tucker, please listen—"
But Tucker was done listening. He rushed at her.
She hesitated, her uncertainty probably saving his life.
The weapon went off with a huge concussion, echoing painfully in the narrow alley. Fire flashed through Tucker's left arm, but then he was on top of her, the gun in his hands.
He stepped back, the gun in his shaking right hand, the slug thrower's barrel doing a little dance, the daffodils somehow, ridiculously, still in his left hand.
He dropped the flowers and leveled the weapon at her, steadying it with both hands. "You've lied, you've done nothing but lie. Everything. Everything a lie."
"Tucker, please—" She held her hands out. It was almost a sob.
"Why didn't you tell me, Alexi?" he said between clenched teeth. "Why didn't you tell me that the blackout was Devlin Stone's plan?
And then he plunged into the storm, leaving nothing behind but a bunch of cheerful, yellow daffodils scattered across the rain-slicked cobblestones of a lonely alley.
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