Photeos laughed. “There are only two other exits from this room. I doubt she would hide in the cleaning closet, Second Lord.”
Inside her helmet, Pallasophia's grin was amused. “Then we go that way.”
“As you say, Lochagos.”
The area on the other side of the little vestibule was dark. Pallasophia half expected to hear the crunch of broken glass underfoot, but it was noticeably absent. If her memory served correctly, this was part of the initial medical areas before the arena, or it was. Once upon a time, the subjects would have undergone rigorous medical screening before being allowed to fight the elite and its associated mastigas.
Absently, she wondered what the creatures had done with the holding area that once housed the four-armed monstrosity. Trashing it seemed most likely.
“Lights?” Stavros whispered.
Pallasophia shook her head, then realized the gesture would be lost in the darkness. She replied, “no. When I saw her in the arena, the bright lights seemed to bother her eyes. We're playing on her terms now, Dekaneas.” She voiced that last statement louder than the others, projecting so that her voice would carry.
“That's far enough.”
The voice that spoke came from the opposite end of the room, with the scratchy, hoarse quality from Eleni's recording. In person, or nearly so, it was clear that the speaker was unaccustomed to forming words and speaking. Her command of those words seemed correct, but simple unfamiliarity lent it an over-enunciated quality.
She spoke again. “Who are you?”
“My name is Pallasophia. With me are Stavros, Eleni, Myrto, and Photeos, all soldiers. We've been sent to take you to safety.”
The voice repeated. “Who are you?”
Pallasophia fell silent for a moment. She beckoned to Eleni. Despite the intimate knowledge she felt she shared with One Hundred, her training in psychology would, she hoped, prove more useful. “Any idea what she wants to know?”
She thought for a moment, lowering her rifle to hang from its sling. Quietly, she said, “she has yet to attack us, which means she doesn't view us as a threat.”
“That much was obvious.”
“Yet,” she continued, “she's staying hidden. I don't think names are going to be enough to coax her out here.”
Pallasophia spoke to the shadows where she suspected One Hundred was hiding. She used the most formal of tones and tenses. “These three are soldiers by trade. I myself am a scientist and...”
One Hundred's voice interrupted. Behind her voice was a quiet sound of metal-on-metal and two footsteps. “Soldiers. Are you with the green eyes?”
“I assume you're watching me,” Pallasophia said. She wondered exactly how good One Hundred's eyes were. Perhaps she could see her clearly. “I'm going to remove my helmet now.”
One Hundred remained in the shadows, silent. A tense moment passed and Pallasophia slowly unlatched the straps under her chin and removed the helmet. Underneath, her short hair stuck out in several directions, sweaty and mussed by the helmet itself. She motioned for the others to do the same.
Stavros and Photeos moved first. Photeos's pale skin stood out with a sheen of sweat. The mathematical design shaved into his close-cropped hair had turned the same ruddy shade as his cheeks. He might have been one of the best fighters Tritogenes employed, but his pale complexion meant any exertion showed like a beacon. Stavros moved right afterward, showing dark skin and even darker hair. His forehead, in contrast to his CO's, was dry.
Myrto and Eleni removed their helmets last. Both wore their hair in near identical styles, with shaved sides. Eleni bore a tattoo of the golden ratio on either side of her head, while Myrto's short-haired scalp was otherwise bare. Down Eleni's back tumbled a shock of blond hair twisted into an intricate six-strand braid that fell halfway down her back now that it was free of the helmet.
“We're human, just like you,” Pallasophia said.
Silence hung in the dark room for a full minute before One Hundred emerged from the darkness. She was preceded by the menacing point of an enormous sword. The Technocrats one and all immediately recognized it as one of the swords carried by the elite. It hovered a bit lower than the three-meter monster would have held it, but the long blade was no less dangerous in the hands of a human.
Perhaps, Pallasophia thought, it might even be more dangerous in One Hundred's hands.
Behind the sword was a black suited figure. Ingrained training itched at Pallasophia's hands. She wanted to raise her rifle and shoot the thing in front of her. One Hundred, in her cobbled-together clothing and armor looked more like a mastigas than a human. The stolen helmet she wore only added to the image.
A quick glance to her sides showed her that she was not alone in those feelings. Eleni was tense, ready to spring backward on command, to open the distance between herself and what looked for all the world like a mastigas. Stavros, on the other hand, fought the urge to inch forward. He had never seen a mastigas in person, and the horror of Isodorus's death only made him bolder.
Pallasophia regarded Number One Hundred for a long moment before the other spoke again. Her voice was still scratchy, but as she spoke, she gained greater control over her tone. “You came from the other side of the mastigas titan's room.”
“The elite, yes. We sealed the door on the other side, and...”
Even as the words were out of her mouth, Pallasophia knew they were wrong. The ice that suddenly gripped her veins spoke too clearly for her to ignore, even before One Hundred moved.
Her sword plunged forward like a spear. She might have lacked formal training, but the combat data that had been provided for her, plus what she learned from the labyrinth and arena themselves, more than made up for it. Her distance was perfect, even if her timing was not, and she moved faster than any of the Technocrats dared expect.
The tip of the deadly sword brushed past Pallasophia's head. Her muttered prayer of thankfulness was cut short when she realized One Hundred had not intended to hit her with the blade at all. The weapon's wide guard slammed into her throat, forcing a choking gasp out of her lungs. She dropped her rifle reflexively as her throat closed up.
Eleni and Stavros reacted at once, firing short bursts from their rifles. The shots had been aimed at where a normal person would have been, and they missed One Hundred's speeding shoulders by a wide margin.
Photeos was luckier; one of his shots took One Hundred in the center of the chest. The stun rounds used powerful electric current to incapacitate enemies when lethal force was not an option. A single round should have been enough to take down even a trained soldier, but as the electricity sparked against her chest, One Hundred showed no sign of stopping.
She swung her sword and the long weapon clanged against the ceiling. Rather than fight the momentary hesitation in her attack, One Hundred simply dropped the weapon. It clattered to the ground as she plowed into Photeos with her shoulder. Now that she had both hands free, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pivoted around his back.
She moved so quickly that Stavros's follow-up shot, the shot that should have kept her from reaching Photeos at all, struck the Lochias in the chest. An additional shot from Myrto struck him a moment later. The three stun rounds sparked against his uniform and he collapsed.
One Hundred kicked him forward and he fell, face-first, to the broken tile floor. One Hundred followed him, grabbed a piece of broken pottery. She sprang upward, slinging the reddish brown missile at Eleni's face. It shattered against the side of her head, and she stumbled.
She followed up the shard of pottery with a charge of her own. One Hundred grabbed Eleni by the shoulders, spun her around and shoved her violently against Pallasophia. The two Second Lords collided in a tangle of limbs and equipment as One Hundred dashed past them.
Stavros leveled his rifle and fired, but the shot went wide as One Hundred dodged to one side like a dancer. She struck his arms, grabbed the rifle out of his hands, and struck him again in the gut with the shoulder stock.
&nbs
p; As she disentangled herself from Eleni, Pallasophia's eyes went still wider with shock. One Hundred flipped the rifle around in her hands and fired three stun rounds into Stavros's stomach at point blank range. He let out half a cry and doubled over, hitting the floor with his knees hard enough that his armor shattered the tile.
From the far side of the room, Myrto fired a full burst from her rifle. One of the stun rounds struck One Hundred in the leg and she stumbled. The other two missed, sparking against the tile. One Hundred dropped to one knee, then tracked several shots across Myrto's chest. The stun round sparked, and she fell, twitching.
One Hundred pivoted on her heels, aiming the stolen rifle square in the center of Pallasophia's forehead.
“You sealed me in here?” she demanded. Incalculable fury, coalesced into a single pinprick spot colder than space itself, raged in her voice. Her question carried with it the inevitable doom of an avalanche. “This was your doing?”
Pallasophia put on her best diplomatic tone, saying, “you must understand. We had no...”
“Yes, or no,” the icy voice demanded.
One Hundred stepped away, circling so that she could keep the rifle on Pallasophia and distance herself from the others. One Hundred's thumb went for the selector switch on the side of the rifle, changing the feed from stun rounds to lethal ones—Pallasophia suddenly regretted including that particular feature in her indoctrinated knowledge.
Pallasophia swallowed hard. Stun rounds she could deal with—One Hundred had not acted like she wanted to kill her or her team before. Now, however, the rifle was armed with bullets that would tear through her as easily as they would mastigas.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Pallasophia spoke slowly. Every word she said would have to be carefully considered. “It was not supposed to be this way. The mastigas were to be kept contained until we needed to evaluate your combat performance.”
“And the performance of the ninety-nine others you killed.”
Pallasophia's jaw clenched as she saw the imperceptible tightening in One Hundred's hands. She knew she could not afford even a single wrong word. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“We needed to test you against the mastigas, and...”
“I understand that,” One Hundred growled. “They're here. I'm here. They're trying to kill me. That purpose is clear. Why were the doors sealed?”
“There was an accident.”
“The four armed mastigas.”
“Yes,” Pallasophia said, then, “and no. It was the sophont that began it.” One Hundred continued to stare, silent. “The one that can speak.”
Finally One Hundred nodded slowly. “Why are you here?”
“I told you the truth before. We came down here to bring you to safety.”
“And the mastigas you sealed in here with me?”
“Exterminating them is now our top priority.”
“Why now?” One Hundred demanded. “Why after ninety-nine deaths do you come now?”
Pallasophia's voice was barely above a whisper. “We had to know you could do the impossible.”
“Why should I not kill you all and leave myself?”
Pallasophia was silent for a moment. “There are many more soldiers on the other side of the arena. Even your skill and speed could not cover so much empty ground before they shot you.”
“Then I'm your hostage.”
Pallasophia shook her head. “No. You are our mission.”
“Give me one reason to trust you.”
“I have no reason to lie to you,” Pallasophia said. She spoke formally. “If you do not believe that now, I will take every pain to make that clear to you in the long run. Additionally, we still have a lot of work to do. One of us will escort you to out of here and...”
“No,” One Hundred's voice was firm.
“No?”
“You said your mission was to get me out of here, yes?” One Hundred asked, and Pallasophia nodded. “Then why don't we all leave together?”
“We still have work to do here. The area is not safe, and...”
One Hundred's biting laughter interrupted her. “And you blasted the only door apart, so now you can't lock it behind you.”
Reluctantly, Pallasophia agreed. “That is true.”
“Either you're all fools, or you planned on this,” One Hundred accused. “What is it?”
Again, Pallasophia spoke with reluctance. “The latter.”
“I suspected as much. And if I help you?”
“When that work is done, I will submit to any questions you deem fit. Are we agreed?” Pallasophia extended her hand, extraordinarily slowly.
One Hundred looked at the offered hand for several long moment. Finally, she thumbed the weapon's safety on and dropped the sling over one shoulder.
One Hundred extended her hand as well, grasping Pallasophia's own. Her grip was like iron-backed velvet. The strength was there, under the skin, but she knew she had the upper hand and no longer had anything to prove. To crush the Second Lord's hand now would gain her nothing, or so Pallasophia hoped.
“We have an understanding, Pallasophia.”
She nodded once. “And what am I to call you?”
“My name is Victoria.”
Chapter 11
The binary stellar pair around which the Technocrat planets orbited created a much wider than average safe zone for terrestrial planets. Rather than just one or perhaps two Earthlike bodies, their suns boasted seven planets. Each was ruled by a single Hexarch and the seventh, the capital Prosgeiosi, was governed directly by their joint Council of six.
None of the planets orbited at exactly the same distance or exactly the same rate, and a year on one planet could be as many as two local years on another. As a result, the calendar of Prosgeiosi was the accepted standard, with local variations bringing each planet's calendar more-or-less in line with that of the capital. Thus, according to the calendar, it was the same “day” on close-in planets like Katarraktes or Kokkinos as it was on far out Kipos or Limani.
As star systems went, the more distance between an object and the sun—or suns, in the case of the Technocrats—the longer it took to orbit. From that perspective, Tritogenes's secret Aphelion facility barely moved while the inner planets zipped around the twin suns over and over again.
The complicated dance woven by the paths of the Technocrat planets all but ensured Tritogenes would stop at Limani on his way to Katarraktes anyway. His planet sat on the near side of the suns relative to Aphelion, while Katarraktes found itself nearly a full hundred-and-eighty degrees away. Even if he did not have reason to stop, a day spent on his own planet barely added eight hours to his overall transit to Katarraktes.
So, less than a week after leaving Aphelion in his fastest ship, Tritogenes touched down at First Lord Enyalios's private spaceport. Several hours after that, after the requisite feasting and entertainment, he found himself alone with the Hexarch of Katarraktes.
Enyalios's office was much the same as it had been the last time Tritogenes visited. He moved a few things after Nikos's death, but otherwise very little was different. If the Hexarch was being honest with himself, very little had changed in the twenty-five years since he first set foot in the small suite after claiming it for himself.
The area he claimed for himself served as a fully contained apartment. In fact, Enyalios rarely slept or stayed in Katarraktes's palace at all. That sprawling complex sat at the top of the largest waterfall in the city and was home to a great many of the planet's rich and powerful second lords, serving as a center of business more than anything.
For himself, Enyalios's office suite was located downriver somewhat, on the ground level of a building set into the rock above the river below the palace's waterfall. Years ago, the building had been a military command center, and still served that function admirably, but the bulk of the facility's space had been taken up by his Titan training facility.
There, after allowing him time to change
into a less formal robe, Enyalios met Tritogenes in the cool, river-scented building. They toured the facility itself as Enyalios talked about the newest generation of combat armor under development for Second Lord Daniel. For the rest of the time, they made small talk until finally ending up in the Hexarch's suite, cool and dim where it had been cut directly into the rock.
Even in the dim light he preferred, Enyalios's robe and jewelry shimmered, Like Tritogenes, he had donned something less formal, but the two Hexarchs had very different definitions of what that meant. Tritogenes wore a faded purple robe spotted with embroidery here and there. The edges and hems were frayed, but Enyalios supposed that defined the Project well enough.
For his own part, Enyalios wore a much newer robe, though it sported less ornamentation than the one he wore to dinner. His elaborately Fibonacci-braided hair remained in place, as did a few of the less valuable pieces of his handcrafted jewelry.
“Before we talk of the Project,” Enyalios began as the doors behind them swung shut, “I should let you know that Eurybia is here as well. She will likely have questions about your part of things.”
Tritogenes's eyes widened in surprise. “What's she doing here?”
“She came to inspect the Project.”
Tritogenes scoffed. “So she says.”
“So far, that's all she's done.”
Tritogenes eyed him for a moment, and Enyalios knew exactly what he was doing. The way his gaze wandered all over someone's face, watching for little tells and tics, was nothing new. After a moment, a ghost of a smile flitted across the younger Hexarch's lips. “Why do I sense a 'but' coming?”
Enyalios laughed. He held many years of seniority over Tritogenes, and early on in the latter's career, they butted heads over many things. Energetic and young—by the standards of the Hexarchs, anyway. He was scarcely forty-five when he ascended to the Hexarchate of Limani—First Lord Tritogenes simply seemed to rub Enyalios the wrong way. Tritogenes often came out of their debates with the upper hand, something that never stopped annoying Enyalios, even after he realized exactly how the theatrically-trained Hexarch was doing it.
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