Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  That polite smile never falters, and Lilja begins to find it insulting, annoying.

  “I would very much like to see for myself. Please?” she adds, perking her sculpted eyebrows just enough to subtly accentuate the word.

  Lilja knows this is part of the deal. Skot explained it to her, and she was even asked if she would accept it. She knows they did not necessarily have to gain her acquiescence to many aspects of the negotiation, and she is thankful and appreciative to Skot that he made that so. These two powerful, wealthy families did not need the approval of a librarian, even if she is Head Curator of the Rare Books Collection. They could have gone over her, using their considerable influence on those higher up in the university’s power structure, or they could have undertaken any number of less than legal options to procure the tome. One of the points insisted upon by the Malkuths had been that they would be allowed a reasonable number of unscheduled visits, to not only check on the Book’s security, but also see it still resides in this more public venue instead of disappearing into a Felcraft vault.

  “Follow me, please,” Lilja says, her tone rather cold, and she turns, walking away, the Malkuth in tow.

  Anika manages to get beside her rather smoothly.

  “There is no reason for this to be unpleasant, you know?”

  Lilja briefly glances sidelong at her unexpected visitor, continuing down the stairs.

  “A scheduled appointment would have been more pleasant.”

  “There is a purpose to ‘surprise’ inspections.”

  Lilja stops, her hand on the door to the collection’s room, turning and looking fully at Anika.

  “You imply a lack of trust,” she says, “So, how pleasant do you expect this to be?” Before the other may answer, she opens the door, moving inside.

  She does not bother with the sort of general tour she might with another type of visitor, instead giving a short glance to Marcel, politely dismissing him, and he gets a studied observation from Anika. Lilja proceeds to the rear, halting beside the display, turning to face the other woman, gesturing with her left hand to the book, then clasping them in her usual fashion.

  “There it is.”

  Anika flexes her jaw, and again that forced-seeming smile shadows toward a smirk, then she turns her focus to the tome, going in close. She raises a hand, well-manicured fingernails getting close to the transparent, plastic cover. She turns her eyes to Lilja.

  “May I touch it?”

  Lilja just looks at her.

  “Will anything harmful happen to me if I do?” she amends.

  “Not from a light touch, no. The security measures are more stringent when no one is here.”

  “Is that so?” the woman remarks, and her nails click on the rigid material, gliding over it, “But when someone is here …?” She looks back at the woman who is both curator and guardian.

  “If you were to attempt to gain entry, alarms would go off. It is not unprotected when we are here, only that some of the stricter securities are disengaged.”

  Anika rights herself, turning to face Lilja, nodding, slowly, thoughtfully. She looks about.

  “Impressive,” she seems to casually remark, “I assume there are many measures in place, but I note few of them.”

  She speaks with a detectable accent that possibly indicates she hails from somewhere much closer to here than does Lilja. It is obvious the woman is fluent with English, the intonation changing as though fluid, giving her to sometimes sound like a native speaker from America.

  “The Malkuths have been apprised of the exact security in place, both mundane and extraordinary. If you wish, I can provide you with a copy of the details.”

  “That sounds rehearsed. Someone breached the defenses. Well, something, I suppose,” she amends, though Lilja does not break the ensuing, baited silence. “But you did come right away and kill it, didn’t you? Or … did Skothiam help?”

  Lilja assumes the Malkuths have since been given a report of the break-in. She does not know how much Skot chose to reveal of the details, so she elects to be careful.

  “Of course, he did,” she says, “I did not put all these defenses in place, just as I did not put in the basic alarms and cameras. This is a combined effort.”

  And now the lips of the other drop some pretense, pulling up to one side in a more obvious smirk.

  “I meant that night, when it happened. Was he here?”

  Lilja wonders why she is being asked such a pointed question, and she hesitates on how to answer, wondering if she ought to just refuse to talk of it, but she elects for a minimal, honest response.

  “No.”

  Anika perks her eyebrows.

  “You did good to stop the attempted thievery.” The polished woman seems to give compliment, but Lilja does no more than look at her. “Though I suppose it was more the supernatural traps that really did the job.”

  Just as with the shallow praise, the librarian does not outwardly react.

  “Well, the attempt was thwarted. Good. But that does mean they now know it is here.”

  Lilja says nothing to this.

  “It is possible they may unleash a more open, concentrated attack.”

  More silence stretches, and Lilja finally gives a brief nod. “That is possible.”

  “Does that not worry you?”

  “Is this part of the inspection?” Lilja returns, after another short moment of quiet thought.

  “You are part of the security here, are you not?” Anika gives right back, speaking with a sharp undertone, that lingering curl gone from her lips.

  “Are you here, then, to evaluate me?” Lilja shows she is not unwilling to engage, also portraying a cold, strong aspect.

  “In some respects, I may be.”

  “I will make available to you all necessary information regarding the security systems in place, even down to detailed specifications, if you wish,” Lilja informs, “You may ask any question you want of me, but I will not answer any question you ask. If I feel it is pertinent to your inspection, then I will answer. If you are unhappy with my not answering, or any of my answers, then I invite you to follow the proper channels in whatever way you see fit.”

  The little grin does not leave the other woman’s lips. She steps closer, her heels resounding off the resilient flooring. She interlaces her fingers, holding her hands before her on bent arms. She stops, closer to Lilja, though not an improper or dangerous proximity, letting her hands fall loosely to her sides.

  “My, my,” she comments, “It seems the Felcrafts have chosen a worthy custodian. Good for them.” She raises her chin, angling a somewhat downward gaze at the shorter woman, as though waiting for a response.

  Lilja says nothing, just maintaining her observance.

  Anika exhales through her nose, enough force to make it quite audible, and as she does, her face is lowered, the grin creeping more onto it.

  “Denman has shared some information of you,” she reveals, “I especially found interesting the part about you two helping Skothiam to close the Gateway.”

  “Did he mention about me holding my sword to his throat?”

  Anika’s eyes narrow, her lips pulling up more on one side, as she gives the petite woman a studied look. “No,” she finally says, going back to the more polished, professional attitude, re-clasping her hands with the interlaced fingers, stepping away. “Though he did say that you project a cold exterior that is part professionalism, part challenge, and part defense. I see that is true, and just as he says, that exterior, as strong as it appears, may be quite easily chipped.” She turns, pausing, fixing her eyes fully on the other. “If not cracked.”

  Lilja seethes a bit, but she fights to not show it, for she knows she has been chipped. The woman is indeed testing her, and she let her get under her skin. Part of that is because of Lilja’s distaste for Denman, but it does not excuse her lapse. She takes some slow, deep breaths.

  “I’d like to examine the Book,” Anika states, still sounding polite, though the req
uest comes off rather bluntly.

  “Of course,” Lilja replies, having regained her professionalism, “When I see the appointment has come through the proper channels, you will have the same sort of supervised access as others have been granted.”

  This does not faze Anika at all, almost as if she has thrown it out as an offering.

  “Well, I doubt that will happen, but it would be interesting to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Lilja has seen and heard enough to now realize that the woman and Denman are indeed cut from the same cloth, though the elder man is obviously more experienced. Both of them are possessed of a certain culture and charm that would grant them easy access to people and places. Were the gatekeeper more susceptible and naïve, such would happen here. She realizes this is all part of the test, though if this woman and her family truly are aware of what all Denman did last year, then the futility of this attempt should be known to them.

  Superfluous testing, perhaps, but then, one may hide more subtle scratches within.

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Perhonen,” Anika finally speaks into the growing silence, “I’ll show myself out.”

  Lilja follows, keeping a wary eye on the woman. She fully expects her to pause, door handle in hand, to deliver some parting question or barb or some such, but she does not. She merely leaves.

  *****

  Therese stares at the slim screen of her laptop, eyes not even reading the information. There is an abundance of it, many windows of various sizes all over the monitor, a seeming chaos. One holds the most available real estate, emblazoned with an undeniable bid for attention.

  “How could you let this keep happening?”

  The whispered words fall from her lips, going into no other ears than her own. It is as if they had to be vocalized, given birth in sound to add weight, to reflect the intensity of what she feels.

  “How could you!” she cries out, suddenly clenching her fists, bents arms rising up with a surge of motion.

  She lowers her chin, eyes now clamped shut, trying to fight off a further expression of emotion. She pulls in a slow breath, her chest rising within it beneath the well-worn white tank top. After a time, she raises her face, again looking at the screen, and the shine of tears may be seen at the bottoms of her eyes. A scowl then slowly traces over her lips, and with a quick, deft movement of her right hand, she puts the computer into sleep mode.

  She stands, slowly, and pauses to take in another slow breath, head still hanging somewhat. She grabs the coffee mug, glancing inside, reminding herself it is nearly empty, so she walks the near distance to the kitchen counter, emptying the cooled contents into the sink. She adds fresh water, shoving the cup into the microwave and turning it on.

  She has a way with gadgets, contraptions, electronics, and the virtual pathways and codes used within them. She is not so good with people. She thought she had left behind such emotions as she now feels. She had become about as cold and unfeeling as the very machines with which she so often interfaces. She’s hardly spoken to Akua of late, and though they might often go a good length of time without seeing each other, they have never gone this long without engaging in some form of communication.

  Even then, she was never that deep into it. It was for fun, more like friends with benefits, if she has anything that comes close to the normal social concept of a friend.

  But now, she experiences these annoying, unexpected sensations, like water seeping into the long-dried cracks of a desert landscape, one that has thirsted so long, it has forgotten it even possessed such a craving. She feels.

  Therese is not comfortable in her own skin. She prefers her online persona of the Sparrow, hacker and data gatherer extraordinaire, yet she now finds herself caring. She cares what is happening to these children, but this is not just some awakened sense of social responsibility and justice, no, she also realizes she cares quite deeply for one person in particular.

  And that person is disappointing her.

  She pulls the ceramic cup out of the microwave, absently spooning some instant coffee into the now hot water, stirring, then adding some sweetener, mixing it all together before bringing it up and having a taste. It does not prove pleasant, but she doesn’t care. She’s gone through cases of this particular coffee. It’s cheap and simple.

  Her computer beeps back to life, and she pads over, sitting and nigh robotically executing the commands to see what is asking for her attention. More information pops up, and she scans it quickly, the mug still held in one hand.

  “No shit,” Therese mutters, “I already know about this.”

  She scans through the entire message from Macar, then sends him a very short reply, eloquently expounding her knowledge and abilities in very few words. She supposes he is doing this as a show of good faith in their deal, but she is the cyber expert. He needs to more concern himself with finding things on the ground, as it were. Maybe he is testing her, or reminding her just how valuable she is, or is not, to him.

  She’s working on a report that details some of the financials of the local criminal organization responsible for the child prostitution. It has not been the easiest to discern, Not due to any state-of-the-art defenses or fancy financial techniques, but because it is quite old-fashioned. They seem to be mainly dealing in cash, and then their efforts to launder it are more difficult to find. Well, the points of origin are more difficult to find. She’s located a few, changed some tactics, and the greater picture is beginning to take a more focused shape.

  She still ponders what to do once the report is ready. This is the sort of thing that could cause a lot of trouble, and she’d prefer that not come back to bite her. She’s hoping the police, or the vigilante, stop them sooner. She’s hoping that Macar might even come up with something good to give to the cops, and then she won’t have to go after the criminals’ money. She’ll be ready if worse comes to worse. As she ponders this, she again becomes more upset.

  She goes to one of her myriad email accounts, composing a rather terse, demanding missive to the contact whom she presumes is the vigilante.

  She rises from the chair, stepping away from her work station, sipping of the coffee. She meanders to the small kitchen window, the one that is marred and stained and shows little to nothing of the outside world. Even if it were spotless, Therese would have a great view of the mundane wall of the neighboring building and little else.

  She gazes into and through the window all the same, thoughts wandering.

  *****

  The message is received, but it is not the motivation.

  She is out, having found the time to analyze the data, and this proves a suitable place to strike. It’s small, somewhat out of the concentration of other operations, and it is a one story building. She feels better prepared.

  A part of he wonders if this place has been left so as a sort of trap. The other potential areas of activity have been in dense parts of the city, those used by other criminals, not often frequented by the police outside of specific calls. They have been under heavy guard and generally in large, partially abandoned structures or operating out of places working as fronts.

  None of them have been easy to find, but she took her time vetting this one, and it has proven to be good intel and a good place for a mission. She is not sure of the exact number of guards, but her other surveillance and reports suggest around a half dozen. She also is not exactly sure of the number of children inside, but she does know that the place has been built-out into very small rooms, basically packaging the small, young humans into cells. She’s seen at least three different children during her observance, and she assumes there are more. She feels confident enough to say she knows there are more, but she then checks herself, not wanting to fall to any mistakes of assumption. She’s not intending to abscond with them, anyway. She plans to neutralize the guards, secure the area, and call the police - her general modus operandi.

  She crouches in the dark on the southeastern side of the building, the face of it here somewhat
small, comparatively. She holds the FN P90, suppressor affixed, the fifty-round magazine loaded with subsonic ammunition. She casts her eyes about, hoping she is not somehow spotted by some random person, upsetting the entire mission. She needs to get inside. There is a window here, and she has her center punch tool amongst her gear, but she knows from prior reconnaissance that the windows are all boarded up. She could still get through, but she’d need more time. And such would increase the chance of an alarm being raised.

  She keeps watch around the corner, peering at the main entryway, the smallest bit of her that she can manage being exposed. There would not show much more of her than a dark figure, a deep blue eye peering out from beneath the black-painted brow. Finally, it happens. A client shows up, knocking on the door, and after a short exchange with the intercom, the door is unlocked.

  Time for speed now. She covers the distance with a rapid walk that grows into a jog, barrel of the P90 pointed downward, held close to her chest, ready to be raised and used in an instant. She keeps herself low to the ground, following the man through the door in such a way that he does not realize it, using him as concealment. She then grabs the customer, and she kicks him in the back of the knee, pushing his head on the doorframe, then leaping over his quickly crumbling form in order to get inside.

  Her eyes sweep quickly, taking in the scene as she has been taught to do. There is a raised area, forming something of a counter, behind which stands the ‘host’, a young man with scraggly, dark hair. He has already begun walking out, a knowing smirk on his lips in greeting for what must be a regular customer. That expression drops instantly, covered in shock and fright. He does not immediately appear to be armed. The other two men in here are, and they level their weapons at her.

  She continues moving toward the receptionist, her weapon pointed, diminutive frame held low, and she fires quickly, barrel adjusting after the first pair, delivering two more coughing shots, and both sentries go down, hit in the upper arm, one also in the right side of his chest near his shoulder.