by R S Penney
A man in his late fifties who stood behind a podium in an expensive black suit filled the screen. Gerald Atkins, the current prime minister, was a man who looked like he'd spent too much of his youth drinking. “My fellow Canadians,” he began. “This past month has been a test of our courage and our resolve to stand together.
“Canada has always prided itself on being a nation of diversity, a nation that draws strength from the many different people who live within its borders and the many ideas, values and traditions they bring with them. However, tonight we are forced to consider the safety of our citizens first.
“Though it pains me to say it, it has come to my attention that someone within our ranks has been colluding with the terrorist, and evidence suggests that one of the Justice Keepers may be involved.” He was silent just long enough for the murmurs of the crowd to reach the microphone.
“As of this moment,” Atkins went on, “Canada's borders are closed to off-worlders. Those Leyrian citizens who have been living and working among us will be given forty-eight hours to depart, after which time, they will be subject to arrest. We will continue to seek advice and insight from the Justice Keepers, but Canadian law enforcement will take point in this investigation.
“This is not a proud moment for Canadians or their allies. We are committed to the protection of our citizens and to a swift resolution to this investigation. Thank you.”
A lump had settled into Jack's stomach. He turned to find Jena facing him with skin as pale as snow. “I think,” he said, “that things just got worse.”
The end of Part 1.
Interlude
Through the shuttle's canopy window, he watched a single point of light pulsate in the distance. A few taps at the control console brought them out of warp, and the single point collapsed into a billion stars that spread out all around them.
Slade pressed his lips together, staring through the window. He blinked a few times. “I remember the first time I saw the stars,” he said. “As a boy, I thought it impossible that I would one day walk among them.”
He swiveled around.
At the back of the cockpit, Breslan stood with his arms folded, frowning down at the floor. The man's golden hair was cut short to match the square goatee that he'd recently started. “Are you sure it's wise to stop?” he asked. “Won't they track our travel time?”
Slade grinned, shutting his eyes tight. He let his head hang, then brushed a strand of hair off his face. “Not to the minute, my friend,” he answered. “We can afford to make a quick call to our mutual acquaintance.”
They were roughly ten lightyears outside the Sol System, just far enough for their warp trail to have vanished from Earth's sensor net. If they had stopped while in range of the scanners, it would have raised suspicion.
Breslan looked up with a frown, blinking at him. “I still don't like it,” he mumbled, spinning around to face the door that led down to the cabin. “I was under the impression that our acquaintance had no more influence in this region.”
“He still thinks himself relevant.”
“He should be taught a lesson.”
Tapping his lips with one finger, Slade closed his eyes. He let out a soft, sorrowful sigh. “You are too quick to react, my friend,” he cautioned. “The wise man allows others to act for him.”
Breslan stiffened but did not turn. Had he done so, Slade imagined he would have been fuming. “You know what he will say,” the man hissed. “He will blame us for that debacle at the party.”
“Easily dealt with.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Slade leaned back in his chair, setting his elbows on the armrests. He steepled his fingers and took a deep breath. “Do you honestly believe that I am not prepared for every possible accusation?”
The other man relaxed.
Smiling down into his lap, Slade shook his head. “You must learn to display some patience, Breslan,” he added. “Our task will not be completed through acts of unbridled rage. Care and discretion are of vital importance.”
He stood.
Slipping hands into the pockets of his long black coat, Slade paced to the back of the cockpit. “This will be over soon enough,” he said. “Then we can return to Leyria to sort out a few things before proceeding with the next phase.”
The double doors slid open, revealing a decently-sized room with a square table in the middle and a set of doors in all three walls. The shuttle's SlipGate stood in the back, gleaming in the light.
He descended the steps while tapping away at his multi-tool, bringing up the long-range communications app. It was a simple thing to place a call to Ragnosian Space. If you had access to the right technology.
Wonders such as these never ceased to amaze him. Slade had grown up in a place where the idea of speaking to someone across cosmic distances was deemed a madman's fantasy. No…That was not entirely accurate. He had grown up in a place where the idea of speaking to someone across cosmic distances would never have entered the average man's head. After all this time, he still marveled at the prospect.
Still, the wonders of the modern age were nothing compared to those created by the Inzari, the beings that most people called Overseers. He supposed that one name for them was as good as another; they had never been all that clear about how they wished to be addressed. Perhaps they had no name for themselves. Perhaps they just were.
He placed the call.
The holographic emitter in the ceiling shot a pillar of light that struck the floor and slowly resolved into the transparent image of a man who wore a black, knee-length coat with gold embroidery on the collar. His narrow, hollow-cheeked face was twisted into a scowl, and the glasses on his nose were just a little crooked. “I was wondering when you would answer my calls,” Wesley Pennfield barked. “The latest reports from Earth are less than impressive.”
Crossing his arms, Slade glared at the other man. “You would dare to sit in judgment of me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your numerous failures have not yet faded from recent memory.”
Pennfield scowled, turning his head so that Slade saw him in profile. “My so-called failures yielded promising results,” he said. “Can you honestly say the same after letting Jena Morane publicly humiliate you?”
“A calculated risk.”
“Calculated!” Pennfield snapped, his eyes widening to the point where Slade thought they might pop out of their sockets. “She completely undermined your power base. You have lost the support of many Keepers.”
And there it was.
Pennfield's greatest weakness was his narrow-minded fixation on securing his own dominance. It was a failing commonly found in the young. He half considered showing indignation – allowing people to believe that he genuinely cared about maintaining his prestigious position among the Justice Keepers distracted them from his true goals – but Pennfield would see through it. The man was foolish but not stupid. A subtle distinction but one worth noting.
Closing his eyes, Slade shook his head. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Consider a moment, Pennfield,” he said. “The Inzari commanded us to drive a wedge between Earth and Leyria, and now one of Earth's nations has shut its doors to anyone not born on their planet.”
Pennfield frowned at that, no doubt mulling it over. “Suspicion and distrust are on the rise,” Slade went on. “We could not have hoped for a better outcome. The task that was set before me is complete.”
“At the cost of your own power.”
Slade grinned, bowing his head to the other man. “If you believe that,” he said, “you have learned nothing. My power comes from the Inzari. Jena Morane is no threat to them.”
“And the Key?” Pennfield inquired.
“As of yet, it remains unfound.”
“Your task was to retrieve the Key.”
Pressing his lips together, Slade looked up and blinked at the man. “My task was to serve the Inzari,” he growled. “You would do well to remember who it is that you serve. Earth is no l
onger your concern.”
Wesley Pennfield bared his teeth, his holographic face flickering. “Earth was my domain,” he said. “I will not stand idly by while you bungle my carefully laid plans with your inability to dispose of one single woman.”
Dispose of? A curious choice of words. Had Pennfield taken direct action against Jena Morane? If so, that would make matters far more difficult. The wise man allowed others to act for him, nudging them into position with a few carefully chosen words. Jena Morane was a tool like any other. “What have you done, Wesley?” he said. “What sort of rash, ill-conceived scheme have you unleashed?”
The man stood with fists balled at his sides, thrusting his chin out in defiance. “I sent an assassin to deal with Morane,” he replied. “One of the best.”
“And how did that work out?”
“Poorly.”
Slade turned away from the hologram, pacing across the room with arms folded. “And with that poor decision,” he said, “You have alerted Jena Morane to the fact that she is being watched.”
Breslan stood next to the SlipGate with his head down, listening but not speaking. As was proper. That one knew all too well where his place was. “Things were bad enough after that debacle near Belos,” Slade muttered. “I must say, Wesley, you seem to be losing your calm centre. There was a time when you were not so prone to quick action. Leaving Earth did not sit well with you, did it?”
“Do not mock me.”
“Oh, perish the thought.”
When he turned, he found the hologram standing prim and proper with his hands behind his back, a blank expression on his face. “Earth was my domain,” Pennfield said. “It will be mine again.”
“For now, your domain is Ragnos. Report.”
The man turned away, which only caused the hologram to flicker and realign him so that he was facing Slade again. The joys of three-dimensional imaging technology. “I grow weary of these people.”
“I am uninterested in your feelings.”
“The Ragnosians are arrogant,” Pennfield began, “convinced of their own superior status. They've managed to conquer a handful of worlds in their region of the galaxy, and they hunger for a greater challenge.”
“One will be provided in due time.”
“I have begun laying the ground work in the local media,” he said. “Enough credits will buy you all the influence you could ever need. News of Earth's discovery has begun to circulate.”
Slade turned his face up to the ceiling, squinting as he considered the angles. “That should make them eager for conflict,” he said softly. “It must anger them to realize that the lost human homeworld is on the other side of the galaxy.”
“There are some who believe an expedition should be sent.”
“Have you forestalled them?”
Pennfield shook his head with enough speed to make his image flicker. Even the best holographic recorders occasionally experienced glitches when a subject moved too quickly. “I lack the influence to accomplish that task.”
“No matter,” Slade said. “Such an expedition would be doomed to failure.”
“Indeed.”
“Continue your work,” Slade instructed.
Tapping the screen on his multi-tool caused the hologram to wink out of existence, leaving him alone with a very anxious Breslan who stood next to the SlipGate, staring down at his feet. “We should kill her.”
Slade raised an eyebrow.
The other man looked up to snarl at him with teeth clenched. “Jena Morane,” he growled. “Give me a few days, and I will make sure she never troubles us again.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Slade eased himself into the chair next to the small square table, taking a moment to reassert his composure before speaking. It was clear that Breslan had learned nothing from his tutelage. No matter. The man was a blunt instrument, and he would be used to serve that purpose. “Jena Morane is useful to me,” he said. “The best strategist uses not only his own pieces but those of his opponent to his advantage.”
Breslan looked unconvinced.
He spun on his heel and paced across the room with hands in his pockets, hissing air through his teeth. “She attacked us in public!” he snapped. “Right in front of dozens of witnesses.”
“And in so doing, she served our purpose.”
“She will come after you.”
“I am prepared for that.” Tilting his head back, Slade blinked at the ceiling. “There is little she can do to harm me. You will avoid provoking a confrontation with her until I order you to do otherwise.”
By the way his companion muttered, Slade could tell the other man did not agree. Perhaps he needed a little prodding. “Do not forget where you came from, my friend. I took you from that primitive little dust-ball, gave you a symbiont and an honoured place among the Justice Keepers. If our colleagues were to find out that you are not the man they believe you to be…”
Breslan looked over his shoulder, a scowl twisting his features into something quite haggard. “You don't need to force my loyalty,” he said. “I'm well aware of the debt that I owe you.”
“Good,” Slade murmured. “Then let's attend to our business.”
Raindrops speckled the windshield of his car, but Leo surveyed the cul-de-sac just the same. A wise man was always on the watch for enemies. A lone street lamp cast orange light down on large houses arranged in a semicircle. Freshly-built and still on the market, they were all unoccupied for the time being.
He pulled into a driveway at the end of the street, gravel crunching beneath the van's tires. As he settled to a stop, he let out a sigh. It was a quaint little place to live, much nicer than the hovels he was used to.
He opened the door.
Dressed in a set of gray coveralls and a blue baseball cap, Leo hopped out of the vehicle. “A few more months of this,” he muttered, shutting the door. “And you'll be as soft as that fool Lars.”
He approached the front door, slid a key into the deadbolt and gave it a jiggle. The instant he got it open, Leo froze in place. Something wasn't right here. Stairs in front of the door led up to the second level, and beside them, a narrow hallway stretched to the kitchen, from which a fan of light spilled.
Wetting his lips, Leo closed his eyes tight. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath. “Well, isn't this joyous!” he called out. “I hadn't been expecting company, but if you were kind enough to come see me, perhaps-”
A man stepped into view at the end of the hallway.
Dark of skin and eye, he had a square-jawed face that would have been considered handsome by most women and black hair that he wore buzzed to little more than stubble. The well-tailored gray suit that he accented with a red tie only compounded his presence. “Good evening,” he said.
“And you are?”
The other man lifted his chin, squinting at Leo. “Mr. Pennfield is quite pleased with your progress,” he explained. “The chaos you have sown in this city will serve our ends well. But you were instructed to wear a mask.”
Clenching his teeth into a rictus smile, Leo narrowed his eyes. “Are you actually lecturing me?” he asked, shaking his head. “Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you: no one – not even Pennfield – tells me what to do!”
The other man frowned and lowered his eyes to the floor. “I am sorry to hear you say that,” he murmured, starting down the hallway. “Unfortunately the gifts that we have given you – this house, the car, the money and the drugs that sustain your good health – come at a price.”
“And what price is that?”
“Obedience.”
Leo crossed his arms, scowling down at himself. He forced out a sigh as he strode down the hall to meet the man halfway. “I am providing you with what you need. These people will despise the Leyrians by the time I'm done.”
“And if someone should recognize you.”
“I'll kill him.”
Did these fools not understand the nature of strength? Cowards hid behin
d masks! Real men faced their opponents in the open. The memory of Jack Hunter taunting him set his veins on fire. He pushed past the other man, making his way to the kitchen.
A simple rectangular table sat in the middle of a room lined with stainless steel cupboards, and two men sat with their backs turned, whispering to each other. They both wore dirty old sweaters and blue jeans. “Who are you?” Leo demanded.
One slid his chair back and stood.
This fellow was tall and slim with noticeably pale skin and dark stubble along his jawline. His black hair was a mess. “I…I'm Paul, sir,” he muttered. “Mr. Gilbert brought us here to help you.”
Leo held the man's gaze, blinking slowly. “And why should I need your help?” he asked, wrinkles forming in his brow. “Have I not done an adequate job of tormenting this city all on my own?”
“Things have changed.”
When he turned, he found the man in the fine, gray suit – Mr. Gilbert, he presumed – making his way through the narrow corridor. “Your insistence on revealing your face has made it difficult for you to go out in public.”
“I can go out just fine.”
Ignoring the comment, Gilbert stepped into the kitchen with hands folded behind his back, directing a tight-mouthed frown at the pair of idiots who now occupied Leo's table. “Paul and Bojing here are street dealers who have made a modest income selling cocaine to college students. They will assist you should you decide to distribute Amps to the general public.”
Cocking his head to one side, Leo squinted at the two of them. “No women?” he asked in incredulous tones. “Such a pity. I would have enjoyed the diversion. I'm told the women here are soft.”
Gilbert thrust out his chin and studied him with eyes that seemed to smolder with hidden fires. “We are here to serve God,” he said, “not to satisfy your vulgar appetites. I will not subject an innocent woman to your company.”
“You'll condone murder,” Leo said, “but the idea of me having a little fun with some miserable little tart offends you?”
