by Susan Grant
He’d meant it as a joke, but Nikolai replied, “Most likely, Your Highness.”
“She hides? From me?” Kyber heard outrage creep back into his voice as his mood darkened. “Has Banzai woven lies of exploitation at my hands? I treated her with the care befitting the cultural treasure she is—better than she apparently deserves. The only crime I’m guilty of committing was not bedding the woman when it was clear she needed it.”
“We have no evidence of any communication with Banzai. Tucker has been in Khujirt for some time. It is possible, though unlikely, that she was taken from the cave even before Armstrong discovered Banzai.”
“Armstrong.” Kyber poured himself a hot coffee and inhaled the fragrant aroma. “I should have executed the man while I had the chance. A bad habit I have, Niko, preferring to play with my prey before killing it, no different from the cats inhabiting the alleyways in the Quarter.” The disreputable Serpent Quarter, where he’d like to be at the moment, disguised as his shadowy alter ego, Kublai, enjoying a drink in total anonymity. “You say you have images? Show them to me.”
Nikolai slipped a computer from his thigh pocket and unrolled a thin screen. Kyber took the device, scrolling through photos as he sipped coffee. The images were crisp and clear, though taken from a great distance. They were of a woman, tall and slender. He saw a glimpse of blond hair under a hood in one, and there, a better view of her struggling with the crutches on a rutted trail. Another showed her trying to stand after a fall, her frustration and determination obvious. Raw willpower.
A powerful feeling of solidarity filtered through him, and he couldn’t pull his attention from the image. He knew the torment that gripped her, because he’d been there. He knew what it was like, driving on when all you wanted to do was lie down and wallow in self-pity. The bleak days after the near-assassination of his father, the emperor, had been riddled with such struggles for him. He wasn’t sure if he’d come through it all stronger, or only colder. Banzai’s appearance in his life had been a welcome diversion from the day-to-day realities of royal life, but now she was gone. He’d be smarter this time. No woman warrior from the past would be allowed into his life or—curse the very thought—his heart.
“These last images were what decided it for me,” Nikolai said. “They were taken yesterday by one of our transport crews. Since they were flying over the area, I thought, Why not get some close-ups?”
“Close-ups, indeed . . .” Kyber paused at an image of Scarlet standing in the middle of a dirt road, her head thrown back, her face directed at the sky. Her hair had come loose from its braids. Floating in an ethereal cloud, the golden strands framed an expression of wonder that captivated him. So unself-conscious in her hope and unfettered joy was she that he had to pause to catch his breath.
Women had spurred him to do many things over the years for the sake of happiness—his and theirs—but none had ever left him winded.
Scowling deeply, he thrust the computer back at his security chief. “I do not want her near me, making my life difficult, distracting me! I am, as you know, a very busy man.” He stalked to a screen depicting a wintry street below his bedroom balcony. A cheering crowd braved an unseasonably early onslaught of sleet, awaiting his morning appearance. They loved him, his people, as they had loved his father before him. He ruled with a heavy hand, yes, but like little children his subjects appreciated knowing their limits. Within those limits, they had the highest level of education, the longest life span, and the lowest suicide rate in the world.
“I have an empire to rule.” He touched a panel that allowed his image to appear on the giant screen above the street. The roar that followed rumbled through the speakers embedded in the walls. “And a people to inspire!” He raised his hand and the cheering increased a thousandfold.
“And a pilot to bring within the confines of the palace.”
Turning, Kyber spoke dryly. “Nikolai, you are one of the few people I allow to nag me.”
The man acknowledged the remark with a curt bow.
Kyber sighed. The inevitable was upon him: Lt. Cameron “Scarlet” Tucker would have to be brought to the palace. Here he was, telling his staff he did not want anything more to do with the legendary pilots. Yet, he had no choice but to involve himself once again. The reason? Simple. While he didn’t want Scarlet, he didn’t want anyone else to have her, either.
He turned. “Very well. Bring her to the capital.” Oh, how it pained him to say the words. “If for this reason alone: to keep her from the Shadow Runners.”
“The Shadow Runners?” Nikolai rubbed his precise goatee. “You’ve never considered them a serious threat before.”
“No, I haven’t, but several new factors give me pause, Niko. The Shadow Voice is broadcasting everywhere, touting democracy as the solution to the world’s ills. Should the uprising in the UCE succeed, the Shadow Runners may think they can accomplish the same here. They couldn’t, of course—the situations are entirely different—but that wouldn’t become apparent until much blood was shed. That’s why I’ll have her brought here.” And not out of the fierce sense of competition and hatred of the UCE that had driven him to want to possess Banzai. This time he was taking personal feelings out of the equation and replacing them with duty—the duty he owed his subjects in assuring them a safe and stable future. “I will not stand for rebels disrupting the empire, and since that means giving them no chance to use Scarlet for their purposes, so be it.”
“And this will give the UCE no chance to use her for theirs, either,” Nikolai said.
“That will never happen.” Despite his change of attitude about the newest pilot, the humiliation of losing Banzai to Armstrong still stung.
“I’ll be keeping too close an eye on her for that to happen, Your Highness,” Minister Hong assured him.
Nikolai nodded. “We’ll fit her with a standard proxbeacon implant, which will allow her free travel within the security of the city walls while preventing her from leaving.”
“No extra work for us,” Hong said cheerily, “and added security for the woman. No more and no less than we do for citizens found guilty of certain crimes. You won’t have to interact with her at all.”
“Good,” Kyber grumbled. “I don’t plan to.”
Nikolai appeared positively pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. “And thanks to your famed benevolence, the American will have top-notch medical care and excellent food.”
“And religious services she doesn’t have to pay for,” Kyber muttered. “I warn both of you—do not send her to me. If she requests an audience, do not grant it. No private dinners. No special favors. She lives here and that is all. You, the staff, the servants—you will see to her general welfare here in the palace. As for me, a weekly report will suffice. No more detailed than what you’d offer the cabinet, Horace.”
Minister Hong nodded. “Your wish is my command.”
“Now, you have your duties to attend to, Hong, yes?”
“I do indeed.” The minister was well acquainted with Kyber’s protocol of consulting his chief of security in private after significant events. With a bow and a flourish, he departed.
Nikolai clicked his heels together. “If you will excuse me, I must assemble a team to retrieve the pilot.”
“No need. I’ve already assembled the best team we have.”
Nikolai went still. “Your Highness?”
“There is only one team that can do this mission justice, giving it the level of secrecy it requires.”
“Sir, you’re not thinking what I think you may be. . . .”
“Of course I am. This time the team is us.”
“Us.” Nikolai, to his credit, didn’t sputter.
“I trust no one else to the task. Cameron Tucker must not fall into rebel hands—our rebels or the UCE’s. We were careless with Banzai and look what happened. Don’t faint on me, Niko. We’re going not as our real selves, but as Kublai and Nazeem, Rim Riders and,” Kyber added with a wink, “bounty hunters for t
he emperor.”
At the mere declaration, he felt his muscles thrum to life, much as they did during the punishing rounds of sword practice he accomplished each morning before dawn while the palace still slept. It was during that quiet, necessary time that he fancied he connected with the warrior ancestors of his past, the entire long line of Hans, whose honor he somehow felt compelled to uphold. It hit him that he’d become bored at the palace and needed to get out. Going after Scarlet was the perfect excuse. Although he’d had every intention of retreating once more from world politics after his distasteful brush with Tyler Armstrong and the demon spawn’s father, he had to admit that running this mission for the sake of the empire sounded far too intriguing to pass up. Besides, it would give him the opportunity to see what was happening in the remotest fringes of his vast holdings.
It had been a number of years since he’d ridden the Rim and surveyed the borderlands. Too long. Rulers rule best if they do not isolate themselves from their people, his father had taught him. It was why, Kyber guessed, his father had turned the other way when, as young men, Kyber and Nikolai often rode posing as bounty hunters. In the years since taking the reins of power, Kyber had continued to sneak away from the palace in disguise. He’d learned of the Shadow Runners that way, of his brother’s involvement in the group, and many other useful things. It was how he hoped never to be fooled, as his father had been, by a plot that should have been uncovered before its execution. From that dreadful day forward, Kyber swore he’d always know as much as the troublemakers did, so that no one would take advantage of him. And that, he vowed, included taking charge of delivering this latest American pilot to where she could do no harm—to herself or any sovereign nations. “Come on, Niko, where is that smile? We’ll take care of this on our own, as we used to in the old days.”
“You were only a prince then. You’re the emperor now.”
“Acting emperor. Nevertheless, I’m safer in disguise than I am within the confines of this palace.” His mouth twisted. “Ask my father.”
He threw open the door to the war room. “Pack your bags, Nikolai, and stop pouting. My horse will thank you for the chance to stretch his legs, as will yours. Trotting in circles in the arena would bore a stallion to tears, I imagine. How can you not draw a comparison to our personal state of affairs?”
Nikolai’s expression didn’t change. “If the farmers indeed turn out to be rebels, and they learn who you are, assassination would not be out of the realm of possibilities,” the chief advised in what sounded like a last-ditch effort to dissuade him.
“Ah, but risk is what gives a man his joie de vivre, yes?” Nikolai looked ill, and Kyber smiled all the more. “Admit it, my friend, hasn’t your life lacked a certain spark lately?”
Nikolai pursed his lips. “I am too busy with my duties to ponder what sparks I lack.”
“A shame indeed. How badly I have overworked you. You need a break. I command it! A mission into the hinterlands of our country is bound to be the tonic you need to approach your job in a fresh new way.”
Nikolai made a sound in his throat, but Kyber could tell by the glint in his eye that the man was warming to the idea. He shook his head at his rattled chief. “Niko, you are what, thirty-five now? Only a half decade older than I, but already a lonesome and sometimes melancholy veteran who misses the excitement of the old days, when we would ride the Rim in the name of the empire. You need this as much as I do.”
Nikolai at last cracked a genuine smile. “Those were the days. I will never forget them.”
“You don’t have to. Neither of us has to. We can live them again, and for a mission vital to the security of the realm.”
“Critically vital, Your Highness.”
Kyber smiled. His chief was coming along. “I’ll brief Horace. He’ll deflect any public or in-house queries as to our whereabouts.”
Flexing his arms, Kyber inhaled deeply. He would anticipate this nightfall as no other. He could almost hear the antiquated creak of the massive city gates as they rolled open to allow him past. Lately he had been feeling as if he were fighting a current in everything he did. There was an intangible, nagging sense that his life needed to take a different direction. What that course was, exactly, he didn’t know. Now, with the decision to retrieve the second pilot, it felt as if he were finally sailing in the right direction.
“Yes, Niko,” he said with robust enthusiasm. “Tonight we will ride, you and I. And we will bring home our prize.”
Chapter Eight
After Zhurihe disappeared, Cam forced herself to go on with her life. For most of the hours of the day she no longer needed crutches. She accomplished her chores, never forgetting to put herself through the daily torture of physical therapy. And she never stopped thinking of the aircraft she’d heard.
Yaks grazed alongside sheep clothed in gray dreadlocks. Cam’s brightly dressed cofarmers tended the flocks. For existing in a world bereft of most modern technology, the people she lived with appeared remarkably sturdy and well fed—well fed even if none shared or could understand her craving for Southern food: her grandmother’s pralines and fried chicken, her uncle’s fried catfish, and . . . well, fried everything. Oh, and peanuts in Coke! She lost herself in a memory of stopping at vending machines near the base gym every afternoon on her way home from school, where she’d buy a bottle of Coke and a packet of peanuts, poking the nuts down the mouth of the bottle and licking the salt from her sticky fingers. . . .
Cam sighed. A couple of yaks raised their heads to stare at her curiously. “Y’all have to try it,” she insisted, but the animals went back to grazing. The grass was matted and brown from a recent snow, the first of the season. The snow should have been ten feet deep by now at this northern latitude. Global warming in the midst of supposed nuclear winter? It was just one of the many pieces of the puzzle that didn’t make sense.
“Cam! Cam!”
A young woman ran toward her, black braids flying. Cam’s spirits soared. Zhurihe had returned, bless her heart! Her eyes stung. The girl was her only friend in the entire world. Sometimes the gut-wrenching loneliness hurt more than Cam’s healing muscles and bones.
But when Zhurihe arrived, Cam could see that her friend was upset. “You must run!” The girl grabbed her arm and tugged. “Go!”
To keep her from passing out from hyperventilation, Cam complied, throwing a gaze up at the sky, half in fear and half in joyful anticipation of seeing another aircraft.
“Not a plane.” Zhurihe gasped, running alongside her. “I heard that they were coming, and now I see them with my eyes. Horses. They’re coming up the road. Rim Riders!”
Sure enough, in the far distance along an undulating ribbon of road, a cloud of smoke told of approaching riders. Rim Riders. Minions of the barbarian emperor.
Dread chilled Cam to the bone. Rim Riders, she’d found out with a little research among the farm’s other workers, patrolled the backwoods of the barbarian emperor’s realm the old-fashioned way. At the monarch’s orders, they exacted frontier justice when they thought it necessary and hauled off alleged troublemakers for handsome bounties when it suited their fancy. They were favored by the emperor, and he indulged them, making it dangerous—and stupid—to cross them.
Zhurihe no longer had to push Cam along; she was hurrying under her own power now. Much faster, though, and her muscles would begin to cramp. In the past, the pain could be so intense that she lost consciousness. “Zhurihe, this is my max speed.”
“But they are coming, coming now.”
Cam felt a little sick. She didn’t feel like ending the day as the emperor’s new clothes. She picked up her pace, despite the consequences. “What do they want from us? The food? The livestock?”
“No.” The girl’s eyes flicked wildly in her direction. “They want you.”
At the top of a wooded rise above the farm, Prince Kyber pulled his horse to a standing halt. Beast reared back, ejecting steam from his flared nostrils. “Easy, easy now.” Eyes narrowed, Ky
ber surveyed the farm below. Its inhabitants belonged to a cult that reviled technology. The scene before him could easily have been taken from three or four centuries earlier. Why some preferred to live this way eluded him, but as a prince, he allowed it in the name of tolerance. His subjects could do as they wished, as long as it wasn’t at cross-purposes to his goals.
Most of the people from the collective were in the fields, he surmised from what he’d observed along the way. A single man sat at a tollbooth, where a usage fee for the hot springs would be collected. Having received advance word of their arrival—the primitive system of lookouts in this area was unmatched—a gatekeeper would have rushed to man the entrance; Kyber wasn’t surprised in the least to see the welcoming party of one.
He urged his mount forward, Nikolai cantering along at his side. “Good day,” the chief called out to the gatekeeper.
“Good day to you, Rim Riders.” The man’s eyes tripped over the sight of Kyber’s face.
Kyber expected no less. The lenses masking his eye color might not warrant a second glance, but the intricate facial tattoo that covered more than half of the exposed skin certainly would. The pigment existed on the cellular level, nanocomputers that he could turn off and on at will. To further disguise his appearance, he wore his hair loose. Long and thick, it fell around his shoulders. He felt so comfortable in his role as Kublai, Rim Rider, that sometimes he couldn’t help wondering if this was closer to what he really was than the outwardly civilized ruler. There were enough barbarians, European and Asian, in the family tree to support the claim, at any rate.
“We would like to have a look around,” Nikolai announced.
The gatekeeper’s nervousness was mute but obvious to Kyber. He was hiding something. Fortunately Kyber already knew his little secret.
The gatekeeper stepped aside. “You may water your horses there.” As was typical of a citizen of this region of ancient horsemen and open steppes, he gazed at the horses with covetous admiration. “Fine animals.”
