by David Bowles
Manually braking to a fourth his speed at a klick away, Brando spun the car ninety degrees and headed toward the desert.
“Antimatter bomb in 3-2-1.”
The heavily modified transport that had been his late wife’s pride and joy screamed maniacally as it plunged on autopilot from the clouds at stomach-wrenching speeds and scaled a black and silver oval at the tanks just as the seven transports swerved to continue their pursuit.
“Accel to supersonic.”
Brando was slammed backward against the seat as the transport blew gouts of sand hundreds of feet into the air in its dizzying rush into the desert. The bomb was triggered almost at the same time, creating a short-lived ball of chaos that managed to take out the tanks, five of the transports, Tenshi’s vehicle, and a huge crater of earth as the blast surged outward spherically. The shockwave followed close on D’Angelo’s tail as he sped a mere ten meters off the desert floor. When he was certain he’d avoided it, he whipped the transport around, nearly being ripped from his seat by the gees the maneuver generated, only his suit protecting him from the bodily damage of such stress.
Wheeling toward him from the clouds came the last two transports. He throttled down to a stop and hovered patiently, targeting first one, then the other. They were counting on his not being able to deal with both of them at once.
“Lock on farther target. Go to automatic. Fire salvo of missiles and blasts in ten seconds.”
As he released the controls, his awareness was yanked back into the cabin. Quickly unsealing his bag and withdrawing the fusion canon, Brando popped the ceiling exit and hauled himself up onto the scalding roof of the transport. Hefting the canon to his shoulder, he took aim at the closer vehicle and fired.
The combination of his lack of leverage, the transport’s release of the ordered barrage and the other squadmen’s strafing of his vehicle sent him flipping backward through the air some half dozen meters. Rolling as he landed, he came up into a crouch and fired again at the general direction of the attacking squad. Both transports went hurtling toward the sand and ploughed into it with a force that knocked D’Angelo prone.
He pushed himself to his feet and sprinted to the nearest wreck. Its mangled form suggested no survivors. The other was more intact, and indeed he heard scrabbling from within. He had just strapped the canon to his back and palmed a chrome when a section of the bulkhead exploded outward and Ben Wu leapt out, lazgats in both hands, firing like a maniac as Brando bounded into the air to avoid being hit.
Ben smashed into the sand and trundled over, blasting at the sky where he expected Brando to be, but the ex-professor, anticipating this move, had twisted as he jumped in order to land at Ben’s left side. As he did, he kicked one of the pistols from his captain’s hands and collapsed to one knee beside him, chrome’s barrel butting up against the older soldier’s temple.
“Don’t think about it, mate. You managed to save your scranky arse thus far, but we know who’s better hand-to-hand. You got the fancy moves, but I’d nail you so fast you wouldn’t even be able to use Domina’s name in vain.”
Ben seemed to weigh his options; then he let the gat fall to the sand. D’Angelo didn’t bother to reach across him to grab it: a stupid rookie move, that.
“Get up.”
Once on his feet, Ben regarded his protégé with watery eyes.
“What have you done, Brando? Thirty-nine men, your mates, like that. And with an antimatter bomb… that’s a capital offense.”
For a moment, the faces of the men on the squad flashed before him: Endo, Diken, Chua and the others. Hard men, yes, even amoral, but his fellows nonetheless. The enormity of what he’d just done twisted his gut with icy stabs of black, like some virulent strain of bacteria gnawing at his innards.
It’s an illusion, he told himself. Wooden men. Sparkless.
The mantra didn’t help much.
“I did what you forced me to do. You know what’s at stake and who the players are. I couldn’t let you capture me, and I’ve got stuff to do before I die.” Gesturing tiredly at the transport, he added, “Besides, they’re not all dead. I’m sure some of the boyos in your ride survived.”
Ben rubbed his left eye.
“Guess you weren’t shitting when you said you’d put anybody at risk, Kyosu. What will you do with me and the others on board?”
“Just leave yall here. Start walking now, yall should arrive at Station City just in time to clean up the bodies.”
He motioned Ben to step back as he bent to collect the other pistol.
“What’s your plan? I’m not saying shite, swear. We were mates once.”
Brando looked away for a second, the slightest twinge of regret flashing in his guts.
“Yeah, we were. I’m going to eliminate them.”
“Who?”
“All of them. You know who.”
Ben looked almost hopeful.
“Do me a favor? Take out Nestor Bos. It’s her only hope.”
“Whose?”
“My daughter. She’s in their sensors, you know what I mean.”
“Damn, Ben. That’s how they got you, right?”
“Yeah, and I feel like shite, but... she means everything to me, Brando. You can understand that, how everything else just kind of fades to naught. A father has no choice, right?”
The squad leader gestured expansively at the wreckage around them. A sudden flash: the image of Tana and Tenshi’s smiling faces nearly made D’Angelo double over in pain. He grimaced instead.
“No. Guess he doesn’t. Still leaving you here. For that exact reason. Good luck, Ben. I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”
Brando vaulted onto the roof of his still-hovering vehicle and dropped inside.
As he sped away, he watched Ben limp toward the crashed transport, growing smaller and fading from sight as both men moved toward uncertain destinies.
CHAPTER 38
Santo’s first action as archon was to release Samanei from the cryogenic hypostasis Rawe had placed her in fourteen years ago. Santo recalled their exchange at the end of that first virtual meeting, when she’d revealed her reasons for cutting herself off from him physically.
“And you’ll stand by my side,” Santo had whispered, “when I evacuate the off-worlders?”
“Of course, Santo. That is the only way anyone will ever permit it.”
Four hours ago, he’d watched as omedeyo attendants pulled her meager form from the blue gel of the cryogenic hypostasis chamber, wiping the gunk that clung to her flesh with abject reverence: the Close had not touched the skin of theophany in many years. Perhaps they suffered a hunger similar to his own.
Work had tempered his needs. His machinations within the theocracy, his crafting of a decoy personality for himself, his careful creation of crises.
Older and wiser, he had met with the Oracle less frequently over the years. She had spent most of her time connected to the interstellar net, coordinating her plans with Yen Bandera and their other contacts, forcing Konrau Beserra’s back against the wall so the syndicate cacique would have no choice but to engage the CPCCAF.
During the intervening time, Santo had noticed a change in her dealings with him. Rather than berate him, she spoke softly and listened to their plan’s progress, as if quietly biding her time. He recognized that he would need her, now and perhaps for several years more. But as the attendants had cleaned her emaciated body, a terrible desire to rid himself of her had seized him, as if some kernel of his being rejected her divinity.
Now, recalling how she’d foreseen today’s events, the archon begged the Eight to forgive him for ever doubting the theophany.
Before arriving at the jinja to witness the Close’s ritualized ministrations, he’d installed himself in the archon’s suites. He had just begun reorganizing the staff and adding his own people when he’d received a com from the Major: Brando, doing just as the Oracle had said he would.
Santo had acted as appalled as his joy permitted him, ordering t
he capture of his dead niece’s widower. Then he’d called the ex-professor to warn him. As Samanei had predicted, Felipe Beserra, that unbalanced braggart of a man, had obviously revealed the conspiracy and the details surrounding Tenshi’s death.
Perfect. Once Brando is captured, he’ll be shipped on an auto-piloted transport full of weapons to the Brotherhood’s local orbital base.
Santo hoped he’d wreak as much havoc there as he had on the surface. If for some reason he couldn’t be captured, however, Samanei had a back-up plan: the brothers from New Beijing.
Not long after these coms, the Chamber of Deputies had convened and via faux-conference had received and approved the Oracle’s selection of Santo Koroma as the new archon. His first order was the evacuation of all off-worlders to the Rasaro platform, and the demolition of the CPCC embassy, which he cited as a hotbed of terrorist conspirators. The chamber, despite a public outcry against the extreme measures, had backed the archon’s decision.
Now that the Close had fed and dressed Samanei in her deceased sister’s clothing— only lightly sketching the four double rhombuses of the Marummo on her forehead, cheeks and chin—the attendants brought her to Santo’s auxiliary office in the jinja complex.
On their heels came Warden Hoya Okubiri, head of the Karibudan guild.
Samanei addressed Archon and Warden both, her voice rough, her gestures weak.
“I need the Close to leave this place,” the Oracle. “Half of my attendants should travel to Kinguyama to prepare my new residence in the teyopan. The other half need to head to the Southern Continent. I want them to purge Jinja ra-Shamanga. Round up the apostates.”
“Orakuru-zin,” Okubiri put in, their face full of shock and concern, “you will be left defenseless.”
“No one will attack this place,” Samanei assured her, “and the Archon’s squads can always intervene. If it makes you less anxious, Warden, stay behind with a handful of your best guards.”
The Warden bowed their head and hurried off to comply.
“My aids have just finished setting up the emergency transmitter,” Santo told Samanei. “It can override the feeds of local infotainment providers.”
With muscles only barely saved from atrophy by years of monthly nanodoc injections, Samanei jerked her head in his direction and spoke in Dresch’s voice.
“So it’s time, is it?”
“Yes, Founder. It is.”
“What about the surgery? You promised to return this girl’s body to a semblance of normality.”
“Of course. But first I need you to address Jitsu, as you promised you would.”
“Yes, fine. After that, though, the rest is up to you.”
The desk’s com chimed. It was Colonel Sumura of Civil Security.
“Archon-zin. There’s been a massive explosion in Mashkanu, near the desert’s edge. While investigating, we discovered that Alpha Squad has been destroyed, all men dead except for seven, including the captain. We’ve detained him for questioning.”
“Keep Wu in a cell and the others under observation in the infirmary. I’ll get back to you later on what to do.”
Santo turned toward the Oracle. “Something you didn’t quite foresee.”
“True, but it proves he’s determined to do what we need him to, and it helps us paint a dark picture of the situation. He may even go against Konrau on his own. In any event, Jing and Hark are heading to Nawabari soon, and they can always do the job alone. Come. Let’s get started right away. Time’s running out.”
Santo activated the transmitter as Samanei rounded the table to stand beside him. She smelled faintly of soap and rot. When the connection with all info terminals on Jitsu was made, she suddenly leaned forward upon fingers splayed widely on the tabletop, an eerily Tenshi-like movement.
As she spoke, Santo’s stomach went sour: the friendly but firm intonation, the word choice, the tossing of her shaved skull—every movement the Oracle made and every word she spoke seemed to come directly from her twin. For the first time in many years, doubt pricked at him.
Is this Tenshi, talking from beyond? Could she have been translated? I can’t stand the idea. Must be Samanei, pretending to be her. But if Samanei can so expertly dissemble, she might be able to—no, impossible. Some things she could not know. Anyway, who’s to say the Ogdoad can’t evoke the incipient soul of any being? Maybe I’m being tested.
“First message,” Samanei smiled Tenshi’s easy smile, “is for my people. Fellow Jitsujin, your Oracle addresses you as a sister, as a loving, translated sister who seeks to guide you to enlightenment. We are faced with a crisis: the criminal off-worlder presence on this planet has wounded us with another tragedy. Alpha Squad has been obliterated, every member murdered.” An interesting lie. “Our shield against terrorism and the mob has been irreparably compromised. We must act now, decisively. The other three squads at this moment are converging on Station City to begin the evacuation of all non-Jitsujin to the orbital platforms until the demimundan elements can be eradicated. Those willing to wait out what could be a lengthy process will be welcomed back to Jitsu. I urge all brothers and sisters to support their Archon and Oracle in this critical time. Our goal is not to close our doors to the outside world, but to make our world safe for those who would make it their home.”
Samanei switched to Standard and cocked her head a bit. “To our non-Pathwalker friends, I say forgive us. Yall won’t like the process of evacuation we must force on yall, but please understand that it’s for yall’s protection and ours. More than fourteen years now, the Demimundo has been jabbing at us, ripping away everything we love, shredding our social fabric. We must act. We must move yall to the platforms till we find them and stamp out the plague they represent. They’ve destroyed our strongest defense, Alpha Squad. Either we do this now, or we hand the planet to them, docile and conquered. We won’t give in. We beg yall: help us. Don’t resist. As soon as this ordeal’s over, yall can come back, and we’ll live together without fear, like we once did.
“The Oracle thanks yall. Be enlightened.”
Santo spoke then, explaining the evacuation procedure and informing the population of Station City of the various pick-up locations. With a final exhortation for the support of all, he terminated the transmission.
Samanei immediately slumped, enervated and impatient, against the table.
“The surgery?”
“Come, Orakuru-zin. I’ll escort you there.”
Santo led her down several levels into the bowels of the shrine to a state-of-the-art operating room. At Samanei’s command, Santo had brought the chirurgic to the depths of the jinja where no one else would disturb it. Now it whirred to life as omedeyo attendants disrobed the Oracle and helped her onto a padded table.
“How long will it take?” Samanei asked.
“Twelve hours. At the most. Orakuru-zin, if—when the operation is successful, will you give me a hand again, should things get out of control? I still feel D’Angelo is a possible threat. Once he kills Beserra, he may get away and come here.”
Samanei smiled enigmatically. “If that happens, come get me. I’ll definitely help you.”
Then the chirurgic put her under, and Santo slipped out. There was much to attend to: Jitsu was about to become a single teyopan, and he its giya.
CHAPTER 39
As soon as he crossed into the municipal grid, Brando found himself being pursued by two smaller squad patrol vehicles, used instead of armored transports within Station City. But he knew the city better than they did. He led them on a circuitous chase throughout various sections until he shook them at last where the gold zone met the business district.
Knowing they’d find him again any minute, Brando glanced at the navigation map.
He was just a block from the building that housed Izakiwo, the architectual firm that Tenshi had founded. Slapping his hands on the steering yoke, he burned his way toward it, pointing the transport at the light glow of the forcefield that marked the entrance to the employee park
ing area on the 22nd floor.
Flicking the vehicle’s coms back on, he punched in the his wife’s old executive docking code, praying that it had been purged from the system.
The glow stopped. He braked as he entered, setting the scorched transport down in the first gap he found.
The com system kept dinging alerts. Brando ignored them, instead putting in a call to Meji Pixan, who had been appointed Minister of Education just three years ago.
“Brando?” the omedeyo arojin said as their face shimmered in the holographic display. “Where are you? The new archon is trying to track you down. He told the cabinet that you slaughtered the rest of Alpha Squad.”
“Acharya-zin,” Brando said with impatient respect, “I don’t have much time to explain. I found out that Santo’s behind Tenshi and Tana’s murder. Carried out by Felipe Beserra at his brother’s command. I have one chance to avenge them. To stop what Santo’s trying to do. To save Jitsu. But I need intel. What’s going on right now? Tell me anything you can.”
Meji’s eyes were still wide at the revelations, but they nodded and ploughed ahead. “The other squads are overseeing the forced evacuation. But they’re encountering serious resistance from the CPCC police force within Station City. Also from armed residents who refuse to be sent to the platforms. But Pathwalkers and offworlders in Reformer towns have been complying, especially after the Oracle’s transmission.”
“Wait, what?”
Meji scratched at their silver locs. “You haven’t seen it? You need to.”
“In a minute. Are the terrorists … I mean, the Brotherhood up to anything that you know about?”
“Reports keep coming in. They’re trying to leave Jitsu. Commandeering shuttles to get up to some of the platforms. Lots of tension right now at the spaceport, skirmishes between them and the squads that are escorting folks offworld.”
“Okay,” Brando said. “Thanks. I’ll reach out again soon.”
“Hold on,” Meji said, lifting a hand as if they could stop Brando. “What are you planning?”