Protector (The Vigilante Chronicles Book 7)

by Natalie Grey

  “We heard nothing back.” He shook his head grimly. “I suspected at once that the Jotuns had gotten into our networks and were blocking messages. It took me two tries to get anything off-planet to you.

  “Not only that, they had used an obscure protocol to make the officials relocate to those buildings you stormed with us. The protocol is to keep them safe if Kordinev is under attack.” From his tone, it was clear that the irony was not lost on him. “We created a fighting force by passing messages any way we could that wasn’t on the networks. People sent weapons and came to help.”

  “You couldn’t get the Army?” Shinigami asked.

  “No. The Army is always housed at bases well outside any of the cities. There was an…incident. It was far in our past, but we have never allowed our Army to be near government buildings since then.”

  “Ah.” Barnabas gave a wry smile. “It’s a lovely idea, that one, until someone simply goes against it.”

  “Julius Caesar?” Shinigami asked him.

  “That’s the one.” Barnabas frowned. “I wonder—do those bases have easy access to ports so that the soldiers could be transferred to carriers?”

  Kelnamon looked horrified. “Yes.”

  Barnabas shook his head wearily. “I’d be willing to bet anything that the officials still missing can give the orders, and that no one on those bases is aware of the problems.”

  “Same,” Shinigami agreed promptly. “They’re hoping to get the troops off-planet before anyone realizes what’s going on and hold their families hostage for their good behavior.”

  “Ferqar said the same.” Kelnamon pushed himself up to pace. “I can’t believe this. It can’t be happening.”

  “It is happening,” Shinigami said. “So you should definitely believe it.” She leaned back in her chair, pushed a little too far, and didn’t have the instinctive reflexes to recover. There was the much-too-loud thud of a heavy cybernetic body hitting the floor.

  Kelnamon watched quizzically, and the rest smothered their laughs.

  Anyone who laughed at Shinigami had to spar with her. That was the rule, and even Barnabas was beginning to get wary of doing so.

  “What do we do?” Kelnamon asked Barnabas. “Whatever we destroy to get our officials out, we then can’t use against the Jotuns when they arrive. It’s a nightmare. They’ll have us bombing our own infrastructure.”

  “It’s amazing,” Barnabas said philosophically, “how much damage you can do if you just behave like a total sociopath. Realistically speaking, the Committee can’t be more than twenty people. Even with their whole team of scientists and guards, it’s probably under five hundred. And yet, here we are.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Shinigami asked.

  “We’ve infiltrated government buildings before,” Barnabas said. “This will be not so much a smash-and-grab job as a don’t-smash-but-do-grab job. We get in there, get the hostages, and get out. On the other hand, I’m seriously considering having you bomb every one of the launch pads at the bases.”

  Kelnamon made no protest, only considered this. “How long would it take you?”

  “About an hour,” Shinigami said. “Assuming I’ve found all of your bases, which I think I have.”

  Kelnamon groaned. “We’re going to have to reset our entire defense infrastructure when this is over,” he said, frustrated. “But that’s not important. Hold off for now. We’ll do it if we have to.”

  Shinigami nodded.

  “Everyone get ready,” Barnabas told the team. “And come up with some way to use Grisor better than we have been.”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Shinigami replied.

  The team left to get their armor on, and Barnabas gave Kelnamon a nod. “We’ll nip this in the bud,” he told the Brakalon.

  Kelnamon nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Qarwit stood in the center of Grisor’s ruined office and stared at the portrait of the former occupant on the wall. Grisor did not come from a distinguished family amongst the Jotuns, but he managed to convey the same stern air of authority as the old noble lines did in their portraits.

  “Excellency.” One of the soldiers stood in the doorway, head bent to show deference. “We have acquired the target and are preparing to convert him.”

  “Do it as quickly as you can,” Qarwit directed. He considered, then added, “Better we take the chance of breaking him entirely than they suspect what we’ve done.”

  It was true. On the heels of complication after complication, loss after loss, Qarwit had launched a desperate gambit. What could not be achieved by one means would be achieved by another. They had been thwarted, but he swore they would not be defeated. So help him, they would reach Kordinev with the Jotun fleet, and they would do it soon.

  Before anyone could mobilize to stop them.

  They should already have been there, of course, to convert the captured Brakalons. He could only hope that they arrived in time to do so now that Jeltor had failed to entrap the admiral.

  “No further orders,” he told the soldier.

  The soldier nodded and left, and Qarwit returned to his study of the portrait.

  “What would you do?” he asked Grisor’s picture. He began to pace. “I am as devoted to the cause as you are, Excellency, but I do not have your skill. I do not have your connections.”

  Whatever orders Grisor had given in the event of his death, Qarwit had been immediately installed as the leader of the Committee after Grisor’s abduction. Some of the other senators had made snide comments, but the soldiers and scientists had not even commented on the change. Suddenly, Qarwit was “Excellency,” and they deferred to his judgment in all things.

  The other senators did not quite dare to push their luck.

  Qarwit had the sense that he should be grateful for this change. After all, unlike many in the Committee, he truly believed in its mission. He knew that many of the others simply wanted to have power, while some sought riches and many just wanted to be a part of something secretive.

  There were not many, it turned out, who truly had the clarity of vision Grisor’d had.

  Qarwit should feel pleased and proud to be overseeing this critical stage of the Committee’s plan. Things had begun to unravel when Huword was killed. Their plans had come into the light far earlier than they wanted, and they had to move now, before they were ready. But it was still possible to triumph, and the leader who did so would be remembered throughout the ages.

  Qarwit, however, did not want to lead. He had not only believed in the mission of the Committee, but he had also believed in Grisor. He had watched Grisor’s speeches for years, picking up on the subtleties other senators missed. He had noticed who Grisor’s mentor had been.

  He was not pleased to be taking Grisor’s place, not when the former leader was likely being tortured somewhere—or was already dead, having been killed out of hand by a human who operated outside the law.

  Vigilante. Qarwit shuddered with disgust. Other species produced such chaos. They sent people like this human all over the universe, enacting some warped vision of justice, when anyone with sense could see that calm, steady leadership was best for the universe.

  Humans, he had learned, highly valued free will. They were quite fanatical about it, in fact. Even when their choices caused them hardship and pain, they clung to the concept. If they would simply surrender some of their free will, they would be like Jeltor: calm, certain of their place in the universe, and equally certain of their purpose.

  It was a good life, being sure of such things. Not being sure about them caused such pain. Why could they not see that?

  Screams echoed down the hallway and Qarwit turned to look. It seemed that the soldiers and scientists were obeying his command, and were converting their new target with as much speed as possible.

  He might break, it was true, but it was no loss to them if he did. And if he did not, if he was able to be converted and put back on Jotuna quickly en
ough, they might be able to use him to acquire a far greater prize.

  In the meantime, there was work to do. Qarwit gave one last look at the portrait. “I will do everything I can to build the universe you wanted,” he told Grisor. “I would rather you were here, but I will not shirk my duty.”

  In the main control room, he nodded to each of the deputies in turn.

  “Tell me the status of our projects.”

  “We have four machines ready to send to Kordinev,” one of the scientists reported. “The original research team had trouble converting Brakalons, but we think we can see some of the places they went wrong, and we are confident we will be able to convert the necessary personnel quickly as soon as we arrive.”

  “If they’re still in our possession,” Qarwit said tightly. He looked at one of the generals. “Where do we stand after the attack?”

  “We don’t know,” the general admitted. “We do know that our defensive networks were readying for an attack, but we have not been able to verify if the attack occurred, if it was successful, or who attacked.”

  Qarwit ruffled himself in confusion.

  “There should not have been any military personnel stationed in the city,” the general explained. “And no one should have known that the officials were trapped in those facilities. We kept any message suggesting such a thing from reaching its target. In order to attack, they would have needed to do so entirely outside any networks, and without their military. Or perhaps an outside force intervened.”

  Qarwit could think of one such outside force, and it was enough to make his blood pressure rise.

  “No one should have been able to get word off-planet,” he ground out.

  “No,” the general agreed, “but it is possible…” His voice trailed off and he gathered his courage. “It is possible that Grisor told the humans where we were planning to attack.”

  Qarwit shook with rage. “Grisor would never betray us,” he spat. “Never.”

  “You should consider the possibility.” It was the same scientist who had admitted the loss of the devices to Grisor. Qarwit remembered her. “Jeltor was also strong-willed and principled.”

  “His principles were—”

  “Wrong, but he held to them strongly.” She was undaunted. “We do not know what sort of torture the humans have at their disposal. After enough torture, anyone could break.”

  Qarwit thought this over. Every part of him was furious at the idea of calling Grisor a traitor, and yet he had to admit that this scientist might be correct.

  If Grisor had betrayed them...

  A plan was taking shape in his head, but he needed more information.

  “Why do we not know how the attack went?” he asked.

  The general looked at the scientist before answering him. “Our communications stream from Kordinev was interrupted before the attack began. We are not certain why. They apparently know our frequencies, however, and have blocked them.”

  “They clearly realized something was wrong,” Qarwit said, half to himself. “And they were trying to stop us from knowing what was going on. The question, of course, is who ‘they’ are. It is possible that the personnel were able to shut something down from inside their bunkers.”

  He considered further and came to a decision.

  “We will proceed with the plan,” he ordered. “But we will be prepared to use alternate methods of persuasion. Plan for several strike teams to accompany our first landing force. These teams will find and capture the families of the officials we need. If their cooperation cannot be obtained via conversion, we will use their families to ensure it. And the first thing we will ask of them will be that they go into the conversion chambers.”

  The others nodded, pleased by this plan.

  Qarwit could hear the mutters of the other senators in the background, and he turned to give them a long look. They shut up, although they glared at him.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” he asked. He forced himself not to snap at them. They might not believe in the mission of the Committee, but they could still be useful—and they would be more likely to support this initiative if they felt they’d had a hand in planning it.

  They shook their heads.

  Qarwit was beginning to understand why Grisor had been planning a round of assassinations. He turned back to the desk and considered what was in front of him.

  “Make sure everything is ready,” he said finally. “For the return to Jotuna, for the strike teams, and for the equipment. We will need to move quickly. Whatever is happening on Kordinev, we must get there as quickly as we can.”

  They nodded and left, and Qarwit went to one of the windows to look out.

  So much of this operation had not gone as planned. Jeltor’s conversion, which should have been smooth and seamless and given them early entry into the top brass, had been sabotaged. Huword’s death had touched off meddling from the humans and exposed the Committee—and they, already involved in Jotun politics because of the debacle with the Yennai Corporation, had not simply walked away as they should have.

  It was a nightmare. It would be easy to say that there was no way for them to win at this point.

  But he refused to give up. He was here because he truly believed that the Jotuns were superior and that a world ruled by his kind—with peace enforced by conversion—would be better in all ways.

  For everyone.

  He would make this work.

  Another idea came to him as he went to leave the room, and he turned. “Send Captain Jeltor as well,” he said. “We all know that the human may be there, and he’s shown himself to be weak where Jeltor is concerned.”

  The general gave a decisive nod. “Not to mention,” he added, “that Jeltor has been aboard the human ship and knows some of the human’s weaknesses. He will be a valuable asset to our strike teams.”

  Qarwit nodded. Jeltor had failed to bring them the admiral, but he could still be of use. The key to being a leader was to be adaptable, after all—and never to forget the weapons one had at hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Barnabas was impressed when they arrived on the surface of Kordinev. Not only had the Brakalons been efficient in freeing their leaders and planning a rescue operation, but they had also worked closely with Ferqar to determine any salient details about Jotun technology.

  The Brakalons who had died in the rescue attempt were laid out under shrouds in one of the Brakalon temples, being overseen by several priests. Although Barnabas was not familiar with any part of Brakalon religion, some things transcended religion or species—and an elegy was one of them. The pure, raw sound of it made the hair on his arms stand on end, and he paused to say a silent prayer of respect before following Kelnamon into the makeshift headquarters of the resistance.

  “General Vidrelor,” Kelnamon said respectfully. “This is Barnabas, the human who helped—”

  “I’m aware of his exploits,” Vidrelor interrupted. Tall and stone-gray, he had an unmistakable set of scars and walked with the faint asymmetry of someone who had sustained injuries and long ago learned to live with them. His grip, when he shook Barnabas’ hand, was warm and certain, and he made sure not to crush Barnabas’ fingers. “I’ve read up on you,” he explained to Barnabas. “Whenever someone shows up in the sector and starts wreaking havoc, it’s good to know more about them. I’ve read a lot about your Etheric Empire—and about you, although some of it is clearly a load of horseshit. Did you know that some of the writing on you says you were a cleric once?”

  “Er.” Barnabas took his hand back and gave a polite smile. “Well, you can’t believe everything you read, I suppose.” The truth seemed too complicated in this case. “Rest assured, I hope to work with the Brakalons in this case, not on my own. I hope to work with the Jotuns, too,” he added.

  There was a pause as not only Vidrelor but also everyone else gave him a wary look.

  “Not with the faction that is trying to conquer Kordinev, I assure you,” Barnabas continued, “but w
ith the portion of society that respects the rule of law, and which will oversee justice proceedings against this rogue faction.”

  “Heh.” Vidrelor’s snort was contemptuous. “You’ll be disappointed, human. You have too much faith. I think perhaps your species has not spent long enough among others. When the crimes are against a different race, the society will excuse anything.”

  “That’s one possibility.” Barnabas refused to worry about that right now. “But we have more to deal with than that right now. Who is it we need to rescue?”

  “General Fedranor,” the general said promptly.

  “And the Senate Majority and Minority Leaders,” added Ferqar patiently.

  General Vidrelor snorted again.

  Ferqar was undaunted. “All three of them are valuable targets with a great deal of knowledge and power. The general can order troop mobilization, but the other two have knowledge of many classified things, and also of many aspects of Brakalon infrastructure that would be very useful for the Jotuns to know.” He paused. “Is there something we can call this group other than the Jotuns? It’s a bit awkward.”

  “They’re the Infrastructure Revitalization Committee,” Barnabas explained absently. “Apparently, their idea of infrastructure revitalization is to take over other planets’ infrastructure and use their populations as slave labor.” He considered. “That, or they just picked the most boring name they could in the hopes that no one would pay attention to them.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Very well,” Ferqar agreed. “The Committee, then. Now, Brakalon protocol, if I understand it correctly, was that the highest-ranking military and political officials would relocate to a series of bunkers like this one. The top echelon would be removed to even more remote and secure locations.”

  “Interrupting for a moment,” Barnabas interjected. “We’re sure the Jotuns are not still in the system, right?”