Chapter Twenty
Demosthenes, nomansland.
Simply because no one went to the bridge, Bellona used the stark room as a place to get away from everyone if she needed to. Her private quarters were less private than she liked.
She kept the lights down very low and sank into the too-soft captain’s chair and turned it around to face the big screens, which kept her out of sight of the main doors to the bridge. She tried to relax and offload all the worries and nagging thoughts, even for a few heartbeats.
Sang intruded only enough to offer the glass in his hand, reaching around the back of the chair with it. The liquid in the glass was dark and looked like tea. High Moon tea, possibly. She took the glass.
“Don’t go,” she told him.
“We’re about to run another trial. I can’t stay long.”
She swiveled the chair around to face him. He had already moved away. His pale face was strained.
“You’re making progress?” she asked.
“Yes.” Sang’s smile was brief. “You should sleep. It’s very late.”
“Look who’s talking,” she replied, taking in the dark marks under his eyes. “We don’t have a medic here. You should take better care of yourself.”
“I will, once the bridge forge is working properly.”
“I think it’s working just fine. You have to figure out how to use it properly, that’s all.”
“The sooner you have working forges, the sooner we can move into the next phase.”
She sipped. It was a good quality tea, just not High Moon, which had a delicate taste to it.
Sang hesitated. “Anything from Khalil?”
Bellona shook her head. “No one has seen him. No one has heard of him in the area. He’s completely disappeared. Connie isn’t talking to me, either.”
Sang hesitated. Then, “Well, I should go back.”
“What is it you’re not saying, Sang?”
Sang grimaced. “Khalil would not fail to contact you, sooner than this, if he could manage it. That means he can’t. The possible reasons why he cannot are few. They’re not positive.”
“Who has him, then? Eriuman? Karassia? One of the free states?” Bellona shook her head. “There are too many opposing us, Sang. We need allies.”
“When we have a working forge, the allies will coalesce all by themselves.”
“In the meantime, we have to wait.” She peered into the tea. “I’m not good at waiting.”
“I remember.” Sang sounded amused.
She looked up. “Do you think…could my mother have done this? Taken Khalil? To weaken me?”
Sang considered. Then he shook his head. “Iulia is too used to working in the background to make such an overt move. Such an act makes declarations. She is allergic to declarations, to taking a public stance.”
“Whoever has Khalil doesn’t care what the world thinks about it,” Bellona said slowly. “That implies Karassia or Eriuman. My uncle Gaubert? He worked with Woodrow. The Alliance exists because of him.”
Again, Sang shook his head. “He is a simple man. Destroying the city of an enemy is within his understanding. Abducting the lover of an enemy to cripple them with doubt and fear…it’s too subtle.”
“Maybe they didn’t take Khalil to get at me,” Bellona said. “Maybe they want him.”
“If they do want him, they want him because of what he is to you,” Sang assured her. “Things are moving,” he reminded her. “We just don’t know who is moving them yet. Something will happen soon enough and then we’ll have more information.”
* * * * *
Cardenas (Findlay IV), Findlay System, Eriuman Republic
Iulia was woken by the screaming, even though she had sealed her private apartment. The apartment door rattled in its seals as someone pounded on it from the other side. “You did it! You killed him! Viper! Witch! You’ve schemed for months—”
Whoever it was, they had been cut off. Had someone muffled her? It had to be Thora. There was no other woman in the household and she was often hysterical.
Iulia covered herself and unsealed the door. The household androids were just hauling Thora away. She was fighting them, struggling to free herself.
Markjohn stood watching her departure, his face wretched.
“What has happened?” Iulia whispered. “What makes you look so awful?”
Markjohn swallowed. “Gaubert is dead.”
Iulia covered her mouth. Then she said quickly, “His heart…Reynard’s was weak. Gaubert was his brother…”
Markjohn shook his head. “He was murdered, Iulia.”
“Murdered?” she said blankly.
“Come and see for yourself.” Markjohn took her arm.
Iulia let him lead her into the office that had once been Reynard’s. Gaubert lay on the floor, on his side, with his knees pulled up against him. His eyes were open and blood had flowed from his mouth and nose and ears.
Iulia pulled back. “What…happened to him?”
“Poison perhaps. Lix says his stomach is empty, though.”
“To die that way…” she breathed, looking down at him. “It looks as though he was in great pain.”
“It looks like something exploded inside him. I’ve seen it once before, Iulia.” Markjohn looked grim, his square jaw, so similar to Reynard’s, flexed. “If I am right, then someone put nanobot larva in him. They hatched and ate their way out, just as they’re supposed to do.”
Iulia put her hand over her mouth again. This time, nausea stirred in her belly. “Nanobots are supposed to eat dead flesh and diseased cells. Cancer cells, not viable tissue! They heal from the inside…”
“Not these ones,” Markjohn said grimly, staring at Gaubert. “They were reprogrammed. I’ve heard of it, as a cautionary tale. I’ve never heard of it actually being done, until now.”
Iulia wrapped her arms around her middle. “They’ll think I did it,” she whispered. “That I wanted him out of the way. That’s what Thora thinks.”
“You did want him out of the way,” Markjohn said dryly.
“Yes,” she said frankly. “Just not like this. Not by killing him. He was weak, everyone knew that. I was going to see that you got his seat at the table…” She trailed off.
He stared at her, not speaking.
“You knew that, surely.”
“I did wonder why…” He looked over his shoulder with a guilty glance, then shrugged. “I know you didn’t do it. The bots hatch and exit within four hours of being introduced. I saw the seal on your door when Thora hammered on it. You’ve been in there, the seal unbroken, for nearly seven hours. It can’t have been you.”
She studied Gaubert again. “He had his uses,” she admitted. “The Alliance would not have happened if he had not made that clumsy attempt at cooperation two years ago.”
“And the Alliance exists only to hunt down Bellona,” Markjohn added.
Iulia looked up at him. “Well…yes.”
“Everyone knows you have contacts working within the Alliance,” Markjohn said softly. “Lucretia Eucleides.”
“Admiral Eucleides,” Iulia said stiffly. “She is just a friend.”
“Of course she is. Just as I am a friend.” Markjohn’s smile was sour. He stirred and waved toward the door. “We should leave everything as it is until the investigators have had a chance to see it. I’ll escort you back to your apartment.”
Iulia let him lead her away, after one last look at Gaubert’s blood-covered face. She hid her smile.
* * * * *
Mycia 489, Mycene System Asteroid Belt. Free Space.
The pain was very bad from the start. Khalil had thought himself braced for it. He had not understood how bad it could get. He wanted to sink into it, let the pain close over his head and lose himself that way. Traverse, though, seemed to know the moment he reached that point. She would walk away, or apply a sedative—a mild one to restore his flagging senses enough to continue.
Then she would pick up where she h
ad left off.
There were no questions. No demands for information. As Traverse explained over and over, her voice wavering in Khalil’s ears, all he had to do was indicate he would cooperate with the Bureau and it would all stop.
To agree was simply impossible. Didn’t they understand that? Wasn’t it clear enough?
He didn’t try to be courageous. He screamed. He cried. He begged for them to stop. He let himself do whatever it took to survive the next wave of pain, for there was no exit for him. He would not give them what they wanted. His only option was to get through this until they were tired of it, or finally understood that he would not become their tool once more and killed him.
Traverse was skilled, though. Just as she knew when to stop him from passing out, she also knew how to keep him alive.
There was her voice and the pain, and whatever humble mental defenses he could pull together to resist both.
For a blessed moment or two, the agony stopped. His body throbbed and he became aware of it as a physical entity instead of a vessel that delivered suffering. He could hear more than her voice. He could hear the whisper of sounds around him, although he did not yet have the strength to open his eyes and look.
He could hear himself panting. The uneven thud of his heart in his ears.
“Can you hear me, Khalil?” she murmured.
Alas, he could. He swallowed, amazed he could manage that simple movement.
“I will give you a moment to reconsider your position, before we begin again.”
Again.
He shuddered and heard himself moan. For a moment, she had let him think it had ended. Now, she was cruelly taking that hope away from him. There was more to come. How could he possibly survive more? Only, survival was not the point.
Water trickled into his mouth.
Khalil opened one eye. Dyse was feeding him the water.
With superhuman effort, Khalil gathered the energy to speak. “You should not see this.” It came out barely above a whisper, his voice cracked and strained.
Dyse glanced at him, startled. He looked around to see if anyone had heard Khalil’s whisper. Traverse was standing by the cart holding her instruments, sorting through them.
Khalil wondered how he had drawn any parallels between Traverse and Bellona. Traverse looked like a distorted monster to him now.
Traverse came back to the chair he had been secured to. This chair was steel carbon alloy and impossible to shatter. Khalil watched her hands and felt a pathetic gratitude when he saw they were empty.
She leaned over him, her small eyes filled with warm empathy. “Do you want to tell me something, Khalil?”
He nodded.
Surprise skittered across her face. “What is it you want to say?”
“Maximillian Cardenas. The Bureau hired out his assassination to Ferid. They asked you to handle the contract.” It hurt to say that much.
Dyse frowned and turned away to put the cup back on the same trolley where the pincers and burners lay.
Traverse looked thoughtful. “I don’t recall.”
“I’m dead. You can tell me.”
Traverse considered him again. “I don’t see the point, but fine. Yes. I managed the contract.”
It had been a shot in the dark. The contract had been a dirty one, which fit in with the Hjalmar’s’ style. He had not considered that Traverse had personally handled the arrangements, though.
“The Bureau wanted her blasted out of her complacency,” Traverse admitted. “You were no longer there to provoke her. Something had to be done. I’d heard rumors about Ferid. I contacted him and told him to use his imagination. He delivered.” She shrugged.
Dyse was standing frozen at the trolley, listening.
“Was it Ferid’s idea to cut off Max’s arms and legs and arrange them as he did?”
Dyse’s eyes widened.
Traverse looked disgusted. “He didn’t discuss it with me.”
“The scope of the contract was your call?”
Traverse laughed. “What are you doing, Khalil? Trying to lay blame? You’re in the wrong position to do that.” She brushed the damp locks of his hair back from his forehead. “Even now, you still have hope, don’t you? So sweet and brave.” She went back to the cart. “I see I will have to be more convincing.” She picked up the little knife she had previously used on Khalil’s belly. His gore and blood was still on the blade.
Khalil shuddered.
* * * * *
Khalil did not recognize when Traverse was finished. He was barely conscious and trying hard to drown in the blackness that hovered on the edges of his mind. Oblivion seemed very sweet, yet lay beyond his reach.
He could hear people talking. It was pulling him back to consciousness, making him focus. He tried to let go again, for when he did pay attention, the pain revived. He didn’t think he could take any more of it.
The voices were loud. They didn’t care if he could hear. That made sense. As he had told Traverse, he was dead anyway. Whatever he heard would die with him.
Someone moved him and the sharp silvery tines burrowed deep into him, making him scream. Except he heard nothing.
The blackness closed in.
* * * * *
He came back to awareness. The pain had receded. He was lying on something hard. The floor, he guessed.
“Khalil Ready, are you awake?”
It was Dyse’s voice.
Khalil poured all his energy into opening his eyes.
Dyse leaned over him. The cell was not the one he had been in before. It was dim. Sound could be heard beyond it.
“I’m alive,” he said wonderingly.
“She was not permitted to kill you,” Dyse whispered. “The Bureau insisted you stay alive for now.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t give in. They want to know why.”
“I can’t give in.”
Strength was returning to him. Energy. It allowed him to think clearly, while movement was still beyond him.
“You would rather die than work with the Bureau?” Dyse asked. “That does not make sense.”
“It does from where I am lying,” Khalil told him. “One day, you might be lucky enough to have someone like Bellona in your life, Dyse. Then you will understand what you don’t see now.”
“See what?” Dyse hissed. “I’ve never understood stupid emotions. They make people behave strangely.”
“They do make you act as you never thought you could,” Khalil told him. “They let you live through pain.”
Dyse sighed.
“I know you don’t understand it now,” Khalil told him. “You just have to understand this—I’m leaving here as soon as I have the strength to stand. I’m fighting my way out, because I will not work with the Bureau anymore. They’re inhuman monsters who manipulate and use people as tools. They’re using you, Dyse.”
“If you try to leave, Traverse will kill you.”
“She can try,” Khalil said complacently. “She may even succeed. I’m not staying here. One way or another, I’m going back to Bellona. I will do anything and everything I must to return to her.”
Minute by minute, he was growing stronger. He wondered if the Bureau, in their frantic need to understand, had ordered Traverse to treat him so they could get the answers they craved. Some adrenaline, pain killers and wake-up shots would keep him from dying.
“You…love her that much?” Dyse’s eyes were dark in the dim light as the boy studied him.
“I do,” Khalil said. He sighed. “The Bureau has faith in their neural networks and hive minds. Once, I did, too. She is my faith now. Bellona will save us all. I intend to help her do that.”
Dyse chewed at his bottom lips, frowning. “You told the Bureau she was not the hero they sought.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because to do what she must, she can’t be your puppet. It will destroy her.”
Dyse looked over his shoulder. “They come,” he whispere
d and touched Khalil’s shoulder.
The darkness took him immediately.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kachmarain City, Kachmar Sodality, The Karassian Homogeny
Chidi paused his rambling monologue to listen. It had sounded as though someone was crying, out in the office.
He looked at the lens. “Did you hear that?” he asked his viewers, even though they couldn’t answer directly. “Come with me. Let’s find out what the fuss is.”
The lens was tethered to his heat signature, so it followed him as he moved out to the main office at the back of the studio.
Cora was sprawled on the floor, her head down, the blonde hair a curtain that hid her face. Her shoulders were shaking. Everyone else in the office had drawn back against the walls, staring at Cora and the screen still showing at her usual station.
Chidi came to halt. The image on the screen grabbed his attention. He even forgot about Cora and the way she had tried to upstage him.
The image was a still, taken from civic footage. The caption underneath was clearer than the image.
Do you know this man?
The man in question was the focus of the image. It was hard to make out details because there was so much blood everywhere. His face was distorted, because whoever had killed him had beaten him with something blunt. The eyes, nose and mouth were swollen. The still, open eyes were bloodshot. One of the retinas had detached and the white of the eye was as red as the pavement under the man’s head.
It was the plain, blood-splattered shirt that told Chidi who it was. He had seen that shirt and others just like it every day for the last ten years.
He crept closer to the screen, unable to look away.
The floating lens buzzed around to the corner of his eye, hovering. He had forgotten about the lens. He had forgotten about the nearly one billion people watching him right now.
“Go away,” he told the lens, before dragging his gaze back to the screen where Korbina lay. Sickness roiled through him. This was his fault.
The lens chassis dropped down and the lens itself swiveled up, adroitly capturing his face from a low angle.
“I said go away!” Chidi screamed. He swiped at it, batting the lens across the room. People ducked, gasping. “Someone turn the damn thing off!” Chidi yelled.
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