by Neil Davies
The younger man, while not unattractive, had stirred no such thoughts in her. The most he had done was send a guilty reminder about John through her system. She still felt responsible for his involvement in all this, and she still felt what she considered an unhealthy desire to take him to her bed. She seemed to alternate between wanting to be his mother and wanting to be his lover.
I'm one seriously screwed up bitch, she thought, making herself smile.
She saw John then, moving through the crowds towards her. She noted the look in his eyes, the look she had watched subtly change in recent weeks. Once it had been awe, love, worship, an idealised image of her that was as unrealistic as it was immature. But now the look had hardened, whether through experience or through association with the rebels she could not be sure. This look was more lustful. There was love there still, certainly, but it was encircled by an animal desire that sometimes excited her, but most often repulsed her. She was not sure she liked what John was becoming. As a child he had been the nicest and best man she had ever known. Now, as he found his manhood, he was turning hard, bitter. It was understandable, but it was also regrettable.
"Are we picking them up yet?" he asked as he came near her.
She found her eyes drawn to the scar by his left eye, reminder of a fight he had started with some of Walker's men after he had discovered the circumstance of her awakening. He had taken it hard that she had been naked, that so many around him had seen her body when he had not. His jealousy was just one of the factors she had seen grow and fester within him.
"Not yet. It's too early. We'll wait and watch for a while, see if there's any sign of surveillance from spaceport security. After all, they were held in quarantine for a long time."
John nodded, moving closer to Ursa as the crowds pressed around them. He placed a hand on her waist, let his thumb trace over the curve of her pelvic bone.
"I'd like to talk later, alone," he said, feeling his pulse quicken at her nearness.
"Maybe. We'll see. I have to follow them now. You wait a moment and then follow me."
Ursa turned and pushed into the crowd.
John watched her go. He wanted her, needed her. To hold her, to touch her, to feel her body beneath his. To see her naked as those bastards had! Once again his imagination threatened to swamp him, filling his mind with images of fumbling hands stripping her clothes off, stroking, touching, fondling her while she lay unconscious. He saw them raping her, although he had been assured this never happened. Assurances counted for nothing. His imagination was strong and vivid and overpowering. What others had seen, he needed to see. What others may have experienced, he needed to experience.
He turned away, confused, as he so often seemed to be lately. Twisted inside by the conflict of the purest love and adoration he had always felt for her with the bitter and even violent need he felt to take her, to physically dominate and use her. He was no longer sure what he felt, only that he needed to alleviate the pressure that built inside him whenever he saw her, and that no one else could ever be allowed to have her as he wanted her.
Chapter 47
"They knew each other. It was obvious. I smell conspiracy in this."
The Controller paced the thick-carpeted floor of his bedroom in agitation. He was dressed casually in a loose fitting robe that swirled with his movements, folds of darkness in the ochre garment twisting in the half-light thrown by a small lamp at the bedside.
Martin Lichfield stood to attention near the door to the room, nervous at the Controller's mood, hoping it was not directed at him. The order had been waiting for him as he returned to duty: Report to the Controller immediately, regardless of time. He had wondered why. He still wondered.
He heard birdsong on the journey to the Controller's private suite of rooms and for a moment it had thrown him, before he remembered the forest so nearby. The dawn chorus was a thing almost unheard on Earth, as birds adjusted to life inside carefully controlled climate domes, but here it was in its full glory, an orchestra of birds singing and whistling, announcing the dawn that approached. The wall of sound had captivated him, and he tried hard to imagine what it would be like to hear that each morning.
The Controller had still been asleep when he arrived to find his way barred by four of his colleagues standing guard outside the Controller's rooms. They had nodded their recognition of him, but otherwise remained grim faced, impassive. He was held until the Controller had been woken and told of his presence. As the guards parted and he entered the rooms he had noted proudly their professionalism. These were his people. This was his life now. Sharon could never share this, never understand his feelings on this. It hurt him to admit it, but he knew now, having returned, that she would be better off without him. He could no longer adjust to living in the world he had known. They had both suspected it for some time. Now he knew.
Martin had been ushered into the bedroom just as the Controller was finishing his morning toilet and preparing to eat breakfast. For the next ten minutes there had been silence as the Controller, served by three attendants, finished his food and drank his fresh leaf tea, a rare luxury indeed in a world of freeze-dried powders and reconstituted foodstuffs. Then the Controller stood, still without speaking, and began to pace.
Now, finally, the silence had been broken. Martin tried to think of the appropriate response, but all he could find was 'who?' and he was reluctant to ask such an ignorance-laden question.
"Loadra and the Reagold representative. I'm sure they know each other. It was in the eyes," said the Controller suddenly, seeing them now as the Reagold representative approached the throne, her eyes flickering towards Loadra, his obviously trying not to look at her. The recognition between the two was blatant for anyone with the slightest gift or training for the subtleties of diplomacy and government. They recognised each other but did not speak.
"If it was anything less than conspiracy they would not have hidden it." The Controller stopped pacing, much to the relief of Martin, and sat on the end of his bed.
"Presumably we have a recording of the event?" said Martin.
"Of course," interrupted the Controller, his tone suggesting he was offended by any suggestion to the contrary.
"Then I will have to study the recordings. They should show us conclusively."
"I don't need any recordings to know that something's going on between those two, perhaps the same something that's going on between Reagold and the Priesthood in general. I don't like not knowing what it is."
Martin said nothing. He was not yet fully conversant with this whole situation, but it was obvious that the Controller was concerned, intensely so it would seem, and he was not a foolish or easily worried man. Until he had the evidence of his own senses to support these theories, Martin could not fully accept them, but it was clear that there was something worth investigating.
The Controller seemed to gain some measure of control, his body softening, relaxing. The faint suggestion of a smile even played about his tensed lips.
"The reason I asked you here, Lieutenant Lichfield, was that I trust you. I trust all of my bodyguard when it comes to physical protection, but I suspect that Loadra may have his claws into some of them in terms of information. The history between you and Loadra is such that I cannot see the two of you collaborating on anything beyond those duties required of you by state. Therefore, you are the obvious choice for what I have in mind."
"I presume you have spying in mind?"
The Controller stiffened momentarily at the lack of formality and due respect in Martin's tone, but then relaxed. It was obvious that there was a suspicion and dislike of spying and subterfuge in this man. He was a soldier, in uniform for all to see, facing the enemy squarely and fairly across the battlefield. Deceit did not sit easily with such a man.
"I realise I’m asking a lot of you Lieutenant, far beyond what a soldier in your position might expect, but I hope you can see how important this is to me, how much I need your help."
Martin regained some o
f the composure he had lost upon the first suggestion of spying. His natural distrust of the profession had allowed his manner, his professionalism, to slip and he felt embarrassed. He was grateful that the Controller had not seen fit to comment on it.
"Forgive me for asking, Controller, but surely you have spies already inside Loadra's quarters? And presumably you will be receiving reports from the Reagold suite soon?"
The Controller smiled. "I have some inroads into that, yes, and I hope to be aware of most that is happening. However, Loadra no doubt suspects, perhaps even knows, who my spies in his entourage are, and where this Reagold connection is concerned he has so far successfully avoided their finding anything out. It is likely that he will be equally successful in steering any useful information past those I hope to place in Miss Harrison's rooms. You, however, will be above suspicion."
"Loadra knows me well, Controller, and hates me. How can I find out anything when your spies close to him cannot?"
"Loadra would not let you near him, let alone speak of anything confidential in your presence, this is true. However, it is not Loadra I want you to spy on." The Controller paused, reaching for a drink on his bedside cabinet and taking a sip. "The Reagold representative is one Tina Harrison. I am assigning you as her courtesy guard during her time here. It will anger Loadra, and he will see it as another deliberate insult to him from me. What he will not do is suspect you of any underhand deceit."
"He will know that I'm going to report back to you, Controller."
The Controller smiled. "Indeed, and he will be careful not to speak of anything important in your presence. What he will not suspect is that you will be gaining information any other way. You are a handsome young man, Lieutenant Lichfield, and Miss Harrison is a long way from home. Even the most professional of people have been known to be indiscrete in the throes of passion."
"That makes me no better than a whore," said Martin, his voice heavy with the disgust he felt.
"No, Lieutenant!" snapped the Controller, the full weight of authority in his voice. "That makes you my whore!"
Chapter 48
"Jason, how are you? It's nice to see you again. Remember me? Ursa?"
Steve jumped at the intrusion, almost spilling the half full glass of MBP held in loose fingers on the tabletop.
Jason stood up, smiling, and embraced the intruder in a warm hug. A few other patrons of the spaceport bar looked over and then turned back to their own concerns. Old friends meeting up at the spaceport was nothing new, nothing noteworthy.
"Ursa, great to see you again. How long has it been?"
"Months, maybe years. Who knows?"
Ursa, Steve presumed it was her real name, sat herself down at the table, still smiling, still playing the game for all it was worth.
It's almost convincing, thought Steve. If I didn't know that they'd never met before I might be fooled.
"Who's your friend?" said Ursa, turning to look at Steve.
Does she realise how stupid that line sounds? Then again, real people say stupid things all the time.
"Steve Drake," said Steve, extending his hand, wincing slightly as it was crushed by the strong grip of the woman opposite.
"Ursa Mirram. An old friend of Jason's."
So this is another T.I.C. agent, thought Steve. At least she looks like she's got more experience than Jason.
He watched her as she talked inane small talk with Jason, taking occasional sips of his drink and trying not to make his observation too obvious.
The overwhelming feature on first glance was her close-cropped hair, giving her the appearance of someone recently out of the army or prison. What there was of it was blonde, a dark, natural blonde. She wore work clothes, old and worn, a heavy sweatshirt and equally heavy jeans. They were the clothes of a manual labourer and, to Steve's surprise, he found that they suited her.
He concentrated on pouring himself another glass only to find the bottle snatched from his hand. He looked up into the smiling face of Ursa, shivering slightly as he saw the hostility behind that surface smile.
"I think you've probably had enough for the moment Steve. You don't want to miss the sights on our journey now, do you?"
"Where are we going?" He knew it was a stupid question the moment he asked it.
Jason broke through the growing irritation obvious in Ursa's eyes.
"I've asked Ursa to take us on a little sightseeing trip. You coming?"
As if I have a choice.
As they weaved their way through the crowds, Steve could not suppress the feeling that part of the crowd was changing direction, moving with them. He began to recognise faces on the periphery of his vision again and again. Was this spaceport security? Had they been discovered?
He considered, for a moment, expressing his concern to Jason, but the younger man was already looking around with an expression of concern.
He's seen them too, thought Steve. He's the trained one. Let's see what he does.
Jason leaned forward, whispered something to Ursa. She turned, speaking in a voice loud enough to carry to Steve.
"There's lots of friends at the spaceport. We might spot some if we're lucky."
Friends. So there are others here to meet us as well.
He followed, stumbling slightly. He had not drunk enough for it to truly affect his balance, but he was feeling the pleasant burning sensation in his gut that told him he was on his way. He tried to stay dry during a flight, so by the time he hit the ground he was desperate. The peculiar stress of his current situation could not change that.
A hand took hold of his elbow, helped keep him on his feet. He turned to look at the man who had appeared out of the crowd, saw him nod slightly to Ursa.
"I'm a friend of Ursa's, Mr Drake. You looked like you could use some help."
Steve could say nothing as he was hurried along after the others, who had not even paused.
Why are they going so fast? Is it dangerous for them here?
Ursa looked back briefly, recognised the man who was helping Steve Drake as one of Walker's rebels.
Thank Larn for that. I thought the drunken bastard was going to really screw things up. We could hardly be inconspicuous if he collapsed in the middle of the spaceport.
Jason saw her look and shrugged his shoulders.
"He's a drunk. Makes him easy to manipulate though," he said, keeping his voice low.
"Who by?" said Ursa, turning away angrily.
Steve was not close enough to hear the exchange between Jason and Ursa, but it was obvious to him that some form of argument had just taken place by the rage and frustration he could see in the woman's face. But what could they be arguing about? If only he were closer he might be able to help.
He turned to ask his helper to speed up, get closer to the others, and saw another man heading purposefully towards them through the spaceport crowds.
He could not say exactly what it was that made him so sure this man was coming towards them when there were so many other people going in the same direction. Perhaps a sense of purpose that stood out from the aimlessly milling crowd? Perhaps a sense of professionalism about him, a sense of confidence? Whatever it was, Steve was the first to see him.
"It seems another one of your friends is going to join us," he said, forcing a smile at the man helping him along.
The man turned, scanning the crowd, and Steve watched in fascination as his mouth dropped open in surprise.
The man from the crowd had stepped close now and Steve watched transfixed as he slipped a hand inside his jacket, pulled out an explosive-charge hand weapon, lifted it to almost rest against the forehead of the man who still held onto Steve's arm, and pulled the trigger.
The blast echoed around the spaceport as fragments of bone and brain, muscle and blood spattered Steve's face. The body fell, still holding onto Steve's arm, and panic hit the surrounding crowds.
They ran in all directions, heedless of others, trampling anyone underfoot who did not, or could not, move with the r
est. Shouts and screams threatened to fill even this grand structure.
As Steve wrestled his arm free, he heard other gunshots, other explosions. He saw weapons being drawn by seemingly normal people, aimed at point blank range and fired. Their targets never stood a chance. He felt suddenly very sick, doubled over and vomited on the spaceport floor.
Ursa waved Jason back to look after Steve and searched the crowd for the others in their visiting group.
What happened? It's impossible!
They were nearly all dead, killed in the first few seconds by people who had been standing ready nearby. Only a few remained, those lucky enough not to be near an assassin and those good enough not to be taken out so easily.
She had turned towards Jason and Steve, feeling that she should perhaps help, when she saw the weapon being drawn somewhere to her right, raised towards her head.
She reacted instinctively, ducking out of the firing line and driving the heel of her foot outwards towards the fleeting image of the assassin. She felt her foot hit the softness of someone's stomach, heard, even above the dreadful chorus of screams, shouts and gunshots, the gun rattling on the floor as it dropped.
She moved quickly, stepping towards the stricken man, wrapping her arm around his down turned neck, twisting and pulling up, snapping it easily. As she let him drop she grabbed the gun from the floor, brought it up quickly and loosed off a shot towards Jason and Steve.
Steve let out an involuntary cry as the assassin raised his weapon only to be caught full in the chest by Ursa's shot. The man’s shirt exploded, shredded by the impact, and his body folded to the floor, a pool of blood spreading from beneath him, his chest a charred hole.
