Empress Game 2

by Rhonda Mason

  Now that they were here, Kayla hesitated in the doorway. Dread crept up, curling around her legs, her stomach, freezing her chest. Silence fell, every eye turned to her as she struggled to move forward. It took all her willpower to put one foot in front of the other and approach the sheet-draped table near the windows.

  She had to see. Had to know.

  A guard moved as if to stop her. She halted him with a glance. This was her tragedy to own. Rawn was one of hers.

  She stopped beside the table. The sheet outlined the shape of a man hunched over the tabletop, its pristine whiteness mocking the silhouette of death. She bunched a fistful of fabric in her hand and tore the sheet off.

  Rawn lay collapsed across the table, his knees bent as if in the action of rising, his hands grasping the surface for support. He was turned toward her, his handsome face black as the vacuum of space, his blood-burst eyes popping out like two red giants.

  She stared.

  Stared and stared in the silence that no one dared break.

  Every part of her wanted to deny it, to refuse to believe her eyes. If she denied it hard enough, could she change the truth? Because the truth was, the only reason to kill Rawn was to get at her.

  Rawn had died because of her. She might as well have poisoned him herself.

  A shrill squealing split the air, making her jump back. Around her people scrambled toward the door. Someone tried to pull her away but she shook them off.

  The sound came from Rawn.

  “It’s a trap, Princess!”

  Not likely, or it would have done its damage already. This was something else.

  The squeal carried on and she finally located its source: Rawn’s mobile comm. She gingerly pulled it off his belt and looked at the screen.

  In case you hadn’t

  taken my threat seriously.

  You have 5 days left.

  Senior Commander Jersain Vega of the IDC stood with her back turned to the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and considered slamming her skull into her desk. Repeatedly.

  “Blinds. Full cover,” she demanded, palms pressed to her temples. The glass instantly blackened, leaving her in the twilight of weak ambient office lighting. Even that she dimmed to almost nothing.

  Damn these attacks.

  The procedure had been months ago, she should have been over these spells by now.

  The full couch in her office beckoned, promising the sweet relief of a few hours’ unconsciousness. Vega refused to succumb. She was a senior commander of the most powerful organization in the empire, the youngest currently holding that post at fifty-three years old. She would not be brought low by a headache.

  Spell. Headache. Paltry words to describe the pain of her brain going supernova. She wanted to crack her skull open, peel apart the edges and let the agony out.

  Instead she sank into her desk chair, eyes slitted, palms pressing her temples, as if the vise-like pressure could counteract the torment.

  Breathe, Vega. Breathe through it.

  In. Out. Again. Palms pressing, pressing.

  It’ll fade. It always does.

  How long would it last, though? If she were a praying woman, now would have been the time. Her door chime sounded, blasting like a shot through her head. Rang again.

  “Go away,” she muttered. The person must have taken the hint. As she caught a deeper breath, hoping the worst was over, she made the mistake of looking at her complink. In the dark of the room, the power light blinking in the corner glowed like a sun, stabbing through her eye.

  Ten steps to the bathroom…

  She’d never make it.

  Vega doubled over and vomited into her waste bin.

  * * *

  One hour, two pain injections and three rounds of dry-heaving later, the ache had subsided into something like the background roar of a waterfall. Constant, booming, but manageable.

  “Frutt you, Dolan.” Swearing at the dead man didn’t give her any satisfaction. The Wyrd traitor had done his job, had transferred the psionic powers of his kind onto her brain somehow. She’d demanded the best. Vega was the best, she wouldn’t settle for less, despite Dolan’s warnings.

  Her mistake hadn’t been in trying to gain psi powers for herself, her mistake had been in choosing Vayne Reinumon—the strongest Wyrd in captivity by far—as her unwilling donor.

  I’m the best, she reminded herself. I can master this.

  All she needed was training. Practice.

  Thank the void she still had Agira.

  Vega remembered her conversation with Dolan, months ago:

  “Even if you survive the transfer process,” Dolan had said, in that oh-so-superior tone he favored, “I doubt you’ll last a week with full-blown psi powers ripping through your mind. Psionic powers grow slowly in Wyrds from birth, bit by bit, layer by layer, giving us time to adjust, to learn step by step how to control them.”

  “You managed to handle a full transfer of psi powers,” she’d pointed out.

  His condescending smile deepened. “I have more training in controlling psi powers than you could achieve in several lifetimes.”

  Frutt, how she’d hated working with the smug bastard.

  If he wasn’t the only man standing between her and everything she’d wanted for a decade, she would have executed him like the traitor he was. Instead, the emperor housed him in high style, catered to his every whim, acceded to his every demand in exchange for Dolan’s cooperation.

  “I think I’ll manage,” she’d told Dolan. She’d been so certain.

  Then again, overconfidence had always been her undoing.

  “Vayne is too strong for you. As is Natali. I recommend we start with Effusa.”

  She would have been wise to heed Dolan’s advice. Instead she’d said, “I want Vayne. Make it happen, or so help me, I’ll turn you over to your own people.”

  And that had been that.

  Now, since Dolan’s death and the liberation of the Wyrd prisoners, she was left with the enthralled Agira and a psionic force that threatened to destroy her.

  Enough bitching. The power wouldn’t kill her today, and she had work to do, starting with a meeting with that lackey, Bredard.

  Twenty minutes later she arrived at the massive grounds of the Basilica of the Dawn, the palace of the Low, Mid and High Divines. The extensive building and green space sprawled boldly in the heart of Falanar City’s crown district. Here, the Low Divine—the darling of the masses—gathered the peoples of the empire to listen to the message of Unity, passed down from the High Divine himself.

  How ironic. Meeting at the center of Unity while planning yet more schisms within the IDC and imperial army. Vega smiled as she entered the grassy park, the idea warming her and beating back the headache.

  Her smile dimmed at the sight of Bredard, standing before one of the dozens of metal sculptures on the grounds.

  Frutting middle men.

  High-level details held her interest. Politics. Conspiracies. Coups.

  Petty blackmail? Better left to thugs.

  Sadly, this blackmail scheme was too delicate to leave to anyone else. The fewer who knew she might gain Dolan’s full cache of tech the better. Bredard was a necessary evil in the process, someone she could hang out to dry if plans backfired.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Bredard murmured when she reached his side. His gaze remained fixed on the twisted arc of metal in front of him. The sculpture’s anodized niobium skin flashed a rainbow of colors in the late afternoon sun. Beautiful at another time—brutal to her headache right now.

  She focused her attention on the bland stone base. “How go the negotiations?”

  “Stalled. I’ve given them a little nudge, to get things moving.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Eh.” He shrugged his shoulders, less confident than she liked. “Give it time.”

  “We don’t have ‘time,’” she snapped. What good were her psi powers, all this pain, without Dolan’s no
tes on the Influencer? “I want that data now.”

  Bredard looked her way for the first time. “Kayla Reinumon seemed pretty… secure in her position. How reliable is this blackmail you have on her, Agent Rua and Princess Isonde?”

  “Top notch. We got it from Agent Nuagyn, the mole inside Agent Rua’s octet.” Janeen had provided extensive notes on Agent Rua’s scheme to fix the Empress Game, though she didn’t have the tech expertise to back it up. Once Vega knew where to look, however, her own forensic complink specialists could find the minute trail Rigger had left behind as she adjusted DNA, retinal and ID scans to switch with the activation of a biostrip hologram. Vega never would have found the evidence without Janeen’s report. No one would.

  Not to mention the hologram program itself—talk about sophisticated. The Wyrds had to have helped Rigger with it because that hologram was advanced way beyond those currently available to the IDC, and the IDC had the very latest and greatest of everything.

  Creating a fake image to cover a person, sure, they could do that. Making the image react to the clothing underneath, say if fabric got torn? Or respond to biologics, such as simulating blood on the hologram if the wearer started to bleed… no one Vega knew had access to that kind of complex tech.

  “Maybe if we pressed them with the specifics of what we know,” Bredard said, “how tightly we have them by the balls…”

  “And give them time to find a counter to it? Not a chance.” They would, too. Rua and the Wyrd princess would slip right through her trap.

  Bredard shrugged again. “Then we’re back to waiting.”

  Vega turned, giving him the full force of her gaze. “I don’t do ‘waiting.’ I do results.”

  “Look. You like to bully people. I get it. How ’bout you stand down on the ‘disappoint me at your peril’ bullshit?” He gave her a cocky grin. “You need me, because you certainly won’t get your own hands dirty.”

  She stared at him for a full minute in silence, watching his grin fade and the fidgets start. When she put a hand on his shoulder he flinched at the contact. “Bredard, I can have you killed before you reach the front gates.” She didn’t have to brag, it was a simple fact.

  He swallowed tightly.

  “Dolan’s data files are worth more than your life. Keep that in mind during your ‘negotiations,’” she said.

  Vega left him staring after her, his face pale, as she exited the basilica’s grounds.

  5

  Kayla, bracketed by two of Prince Ardin’s royal guards, finally entered Isonde’s townhouse three hours later. Other royal guards had already been dispatched to the house and had searched it top to bottom for any threats before Kayla had been allowed to return. More guards waited outside in the motorcade that had seen her safely from the council seat to the house.

  She nodded wearily to one of Isonde’s guards who stood at attention outside the front lounge. Where Rawn might have stood, on another day.

  So many emotions assailed her that she couldn’t even process them. Anger—overwhelming anger. Powerlessness. Exhaustion. Shock. And over it all, fear. A fear she hadn’t felt since escaping the massacre on Ordoch.

  The guard bowed to her. “Princess, Senior Agent Rua is waiting within, if you care to see him.”

  She wanted nothing more in that moment. She nodded at the guard to open the door. When her two new royal bodyguards made as if to precede her, she blocked them with a hand.

  “Agent Rua is a trusted friend.” Kayla summoned every ounce of Isonde’s hauteur and tone of command. “I will see him alone.”

  “Princess—”

  She cut the objection off with a raise of her brow. “You may wait here, or you may leave. Your choice.” They silently stepped back.

  She entered the room and hit the lock command on the door pad before turning to face him. Malkor stood in the room’s center, arrested by her entrance. The furniture had been pushed askew as if he’d paced for hours and needed more room to go about the business. His indigo uniform jacket was thrown over the arm of a sofa and his hair was in disarray, his fingers no doubt having raked through it a hundred times. He looked tense and worried and ready to fight.

  He looked beautiful.

  “Malkor.” Kayla peeled off the hologram biostrip and tossed it to the floor before rushing to him. He caught her in his arms, holding her as fiercely as she needed. She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face against his neck. He was her strength in that moment, his heartbeat was hers. She couldn’t hold him tightly enough, couldn’t convince herself that he was truly safe.

  “I thought—” she started. She couldn’t get out any more than that.

  His arms tightened around her. “Me too.”

  It was a long time before she could loosen her hold enough to pull back and look at him. That face she loved, the eyes, so intense, shadowed by worry even though they were both safe—for the moment.

  “He killed him, Malkor. Bredard killed Rawn.” She rested her hands on his hips, needing the solid reassurance of him to face that fact. “And for what? To prove a point? Rawn wasn’t even involved in this, he doesn’t—didn’t—even know what was going on.” And such a horrible way to die. She might never get the image of his last agonized moment out of her head.

  She took a deep breath, forced herself to put into words the fear that had haunted her since Rawn’s poisoning. “It could be you next. And I— I can’t—”

  Malkor shook his head. “It won’t be me. I have the data he wants, locked tight within IDC headquarters.” He smoothed a hand over her hair. “He knows threatening you is a far more effective weapon than threatening me directly. You’re his leverage, Kayla.” He searched her face as if drinking in every detail, his eyes more worried than she’d ever seen them. “It’s going to be you next.”

  “Let him try.” She’d love a rematch.

  “No.” He gripped her by the shoulders and set her apart from him. “No,” he said again, with quiet force. “Ardin and I are agreed, we’re moving you into the royal palace tonight. Much higher security.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. As Isonde, she was too important to risk. As a ro’haar, though, the idea of hiding behind royal walls galled her.

  “What then, though?” she asked. “Who’s next? The octet? What if he goes after Rigger, or Hekkar? Trinan and Vid?” Who else had to die to keep their charade secret?

  “We’ll be safe enough. We’re not public figures, our itinerary isn’t published like Isonde’s is. And we spend a good deal of our day at IDC headquarters anyway. It’s more secure than the palace.” He gave her a little smile. “I’d move you there if I could, but I doubt we could survive the scandal.”

  That brought an answering smile to her lips. Oh, if only.

  The fantasy of actually getting to spend any time with the man she loved dissolved as reality pressed in again. “We have to decide what we’re going to do about the data.”

  “We’re not doing anything with the data.”

  “Malkor. Five days left with no idea how to stop him.”

  He pushed a hand through his tousled hair. “I’m working on it.” He didn’t sound confident. “This morning Commander Parrel confirmed that Senior Commander Jersain Vega is corrupt.”

  At least Malkor was able to do something. All she could do was go on like nothing was wrong, make public appearances, all the while having a target on her back. “Is that significant?”

  “Significant?” Malkor’s tone implied the question was ludicrous. “She’s one of the most powerful commanders in the IDC. Her influence, not to mention her available resources… it’s much worse than significant.”

  “Hmm,” she said, mulling that over. No doubt the commander was untouchable. “What about Bredard, do we know where he is staying?” she asked. “Maybe if I could get to him—”

  “You’ll what, assassinate him?”

  Was the idea as horrible as he made it sound? It would be retribution. It would keep Isonde in power, set the empire on a bet
ter path. Most importantly, it would keep Malkor safe.

  She’d only killed a handful of people and each of them in the heat of battle for her life. Had Malkor, as part of his IDC duties, ever played the role of assassin?

  Better to leave his past alone.

  “If it comes to that.”

  “It won’t,” he said. She heard the hint of uncertainty he couldn’t hide. “In the meantime, we need to get you to the palace.”

  Another wrinkle occurred to her. “What about Isonde?” The unconscious Isonde currently wore the hologram that made her look like Kayla in her role as Lady Evelyn, who had “caught the Virian flu.” “We can’t leave her here, unguarded, but if we bring her to the palace and it becomes clear how sick she is, they’ll want to have doctors look at her.” The biostrip would be discovered immediately, as would the true nature of her “illness.”

  A buzz from the door signaled someone overriding her lock code. She cursed and dove for her own biostrip where she’d left it on the floor. She had a microsecond to slap it on her throat before the doors opened to reveal Prince Ardin. He gave her an odd look where she knelt, hand still on her neck, before transferring his attention to Malkor. He spoke as soon as the doors hissed shut again.

  “We can’t move Isonde.” His eyes were strangely bright, his body tense with suppressed energy. “Not yet.”

  Malkor frowned at his friend. “We were discussing—”

  “You don’t understand.” Ardin verbally ran right over Malkor. “We have a plan.” His voice almost shivered. “Toble and I. I’ve already contacted him, he’s on his way here now.”

  “The attack—”

  He waved Malkor’s concern away. “My guards are here, it’ll be fine. We’ll tell them Isonde is too overwhelmed to move to the palace tonight.” Ardin’s lips twitched, the vaguest hint of a smile, as if he couldn’t bear to let the expression cross his features but couldn’t hold it in, either. “The fourth cure—we’ve augmented it. Well, Toble has.” The smile broke free. “It could work. This could really work.”

  Could Toble really have created a cure this time? By the look of him, Ardin believed it, and that had her hoping, too. Could this save Isonde? Could this be the beginning of her freedom?