by T. K. Toppin
“Josie,” Simon grumbled, but was obviously enjoying himself, “I’m not taking you to eat at some fast-food outlet. They serve nothing but poison in places like that—processed poison.”
Oh, yeah. That was the argument. “I don’t care. It’s my stomach! And Fried City is still around. That’s fucking unbelievable.”
“What is this obsession with food?” Simon frowned.
“I do not have an obsession with food. And since when do you care about what I eat?”
Despite my fretful manner, it touched me to know Simon cared. A traitorous smile pulled at the corner of my mouth before I hid it with an irritable snort. But his comment was somewhat true. Ever since waking up from stasis, I had been obsessed with food. I was hungry. Like, all the time.
John gave me a knowing wink before turning away. And Simon wasn’t all that guilt-free. He had a taste for the brutally vicious Venom Cocktail that he indulged in, and it bothered me like a fussy mother. It was known to render the drinker insensible for hours, and I’d once found Simon in that state with barely a breath to stir his chest. I’d freaked out, but then I made John swear he’d never tell Simon just how much I’d freaked. Simon and I had a special friendship based on insults and jabs, and so I struggled to fix my face to look annoyed.
“If Aline heard you’d eaten some processed junk, she’d have a fit.”
“Only if you told her, and I bet you’d love to rat me out. You tell her everything, even if I stub a toe! And the next thing I know, I’m hauled off into Casualty with a bandage the size of a motherfu—”
“And the security measures alone will be a nightmare—let’s not forget that aspect.” Simon cut me off before I could finish my rant. He then went on about some procedural drivel and having a fleet of his operatives needing to do a sweep of the surrounding areas several hours before, during and after, to ensure the safety of the president’s wife.
“And don’t even think of hopping onto a public transport,” he warned with narrowed eyes.
“Well,” I mumbled, “I wouldn’t do that. But don’t tempt me or I just might.”
“Will you two just shut up?” John sighed from his seat. “Just listening to you both is giving me a headache. You’ve been acting like high-strung tigers for the last few hours. Enough! I’ve got a function to prep for, so quiet, please.”
For a final jab, I flipped Simon the bird.
Chapter 2
It was the first official outing for me. In the three months we’d been married, this was the first time I was accompanying John to a public function. One with dignitaries and important people. And the media.
Touted as an arts expo to promote the unification of arts and culture across the world, John, as World President was scheduled to make a short welcoming speech, then officially open the one-week exhibition and festivities. Afterward was a gala function that required me to mingle with the guests and dignitaries. I’d almost choked on my own breath when I’d heard what I had to do.
For almost a year, I’d been safe, tucked away in the confines of the Citadel. Safe as in I could breathe easy and establish a regular bowel movement. Aside from quick and informal trips to the space station in Greenland—not that I was ever allowed to go off-planet—secret getaways in Britain and Germany, and a quick and necessary ordeal in Bali, this was the first time I’d left Switzerland in an official capacity.
Two weeks prior, I’d been given the full crash-course in proper etiquette and the social skills expected from a woman in my position. I’d failed miserably. Half listening and deaf from nerves, I’d flubbed my way through the proper responses required should a question be directed at me. Also on my list of required necessities was how to ignore the media and obtrusive individuals, how to talk about nothing at all and do so convincingly. And, most importantly, not to swear in public. The latter part was written in big, bold capital letters.
I’d received a two-page agenda, hard copy for my benefit since my skills with the ever-popular Slide personal units were somewhat lacking. Each item listed, and there weren’t many, had detailed instructions of what was expected of me and what I was supposed to say and do. No variations unless in dire straits or threat to life.
Fantastic! No pressure, right?
According to the schedule, I was to appear in public with John for three events. Suffer through a photo opportunity with the press—solo—while the Home Guardian Foundation presented me with an honorary master key. I had been unanimously selected to be the figurehead representing their cause, which was for the protection, safety, and defense of home, families, and loved ones. I wasn’t required to say anything except, “Thank you, you are most kind,” and give a demure smile.
Countless committees, boards, associations and groups wished for my presence and name. But it was my identity and who I was that intrigued the public more. I was a mystery woman who’d appeared out of nowhere and stolen the president’s heart. Some speculated I was an assassin, a deep-sleeper biding my time. Others lauded me for my amazing and daring feats—all exaggerated, of course—during the recent siege, and placed me on some platform like an idol. Had they known how scared shitless I’d been, winging through most of it, they might have reconsidered.
And many still looked at me as if I were some deadly disease, a ghost brought back from the dead to raise havoc and mayhem the moment their backs were turned. A hideous abomination or pod-survivor, they’d whisper. But I still heard. It annoyed me sometimes, but I’d been learning to ignore it. It was, after all, the truth.
Abomination was a term used now to suggest anything that was unnatural. Like freaks of nature, a category into which I conveniently fell with aplomb. But believe me, in this future, there was much that was unnatural. And I was as unnatural as they came, a well-preserved relic. While they didn’t know the absolute truth, a mere fifty-year pod-survivor still creased the edges of most people’s noses. If only they knew the truth!
But whatever the situation, people still talked about me. And wanted to see me.
John was adamant that I remain unseen as much as possible. He constantly feared for my safety. The less I was exposed to the general public, the less chance of me being in harm’s way. And the less chance of him going catatonic.
Once the official functions were dealt with, I would have some free time to do as I pleased, watched by none other than Simon. This of course didn’t mean I’d be free of the ever-watchful eyes of the media. Best behavior at all times was the directive Simon had drilled into me in every other sentence during his detailed instructions about the events to come.
My wardrobe also got a drastic facelift. I’d arrived at the Citadel with nothing more than a manky sweatshirt, oversized pants, and men’s running shoes. I’d soon progressed to a standard-issue uniform—designated for women detainees. Back then I was pretty much a prisoner. When my position changed from detainee to guest—honored guest—my wardrobe changed again to a more casual selection of the current trendy modes of fashion.
Now, as wife of the world president, my wardrobe had metamorphosed again into something quite foreign. Elegant evening dresses, sleek suits, and neat and tidy casual wear were just a few of the selections I had to choose from. But John insisted I maintain a more masculine persona while performing public duties to reinforce the perception that I was a former operative. Which, of course, I wasn’t. But he wanted me to look kick-ass and all business. Direct, strong, and unafraid was how I was supposed to be. Lethal, quick, and in control was what my actions and body language must portray.
Ignorant, hyperventilated, and scared shitless was what I actually was on a daily basis when dealing with people outside my tight circle.
So, borrowing the cool, calm, and sometimes cold manner John usually plastered on his face, I muddled through the first two of the three official duties required of me. I kept my features bland, my mouth shut, and head inclined to a twenty-degree bow, just as John did, and watched, with minute care, everything and everyone around me. John usually stood two feet
to my right and Simon two steps behind us both. En garde!
I wore a special evening dress made for the gala function. The dress, a halter-top for wardrobe security and in case of combat, molded to my body in a simple and elegant column. Made from a lightweight black fabric I’d never seen before, it had muted silver trimmings to keep with the subtle theme of military authority and power.
I was also armed to the teeth with weapons, a body-shield, and at least two explosives were tucked into my pinned-up hair. The stiletto heels of my shoes each concealed a refill cartridge for my Snare Gun 3 that was holstered just above my left knee.
The design of the dress was to John’s exact specifications, including the fact he’d insisted it expose my scars. Along my right shoulder was a network of still-pink scars from the explosion, and peeking up from my side was the wicked straight line from a throwing disc. Both were marks left from times I saved John’s life. He was proud of them, as was I.
Secured to my left wrist, in a sleek black holster made to look like an elegant cuff-bracelet with intricate designs in muted silver and gold, was my krima stick—my lightsaber as I called it. I never left home without it. It was the one weapon I knew well and used well. It also gave me the greatest sense of comfort and security. I didn’t care who saw me with it, nor did I try to hide it. After all, were it not for the krima, I wouldn’t have been alive. People knew this, saw this, and looked at me with a certain amount of awe, if not respectable fear. It kept them at a distance.
The krima; it was me, like a trademark.
The krima, short for eskrima stick, was a derivative of an ancient Filipino stick-fighting weapon. About two or three feet in length, back then they used it with skill and blinding speed to bring down enemies in close-range combat. The modern krima was vastly modified and modernized. About seven inches in length and thick enough to hold with ease, it used contained laser beams that shot out over a foot from both ends, making it a lethal and destructive weapon. It sliced through flesh and bone as well as some solid materials with precision and efficiency. It was effective, to say the least. These were the standard versions. I had a compact, mini-version that shot out three-and-a-half-inch beams on either side. Even the handle was smaller, thinner, and easier to hold.
John was weaponized, though he preferred snare guns, or his own two fists, as opposed to the krimas. And I didn’t even want to know what Simon was packing.
Loeb was also well-equipped. Aside from his duties as personal aide to the president, Loeb had been trained as a Second Level operative. He sometimes served as Simon’s second in command during public outings like this. He was one of Simon’s shadows, though Simon didn’t need any help. Simon was, after all, a First Level. And First Levels rarely needed any assistance.
I greeted a blur of dignitaries and guests, giving them curt military nods. Loeb murmured their identities into my ear. There was no handshaking, in case of contact explosives or poisons. I was then directed through the sea of people to a more secure area of the large reception hall. John’s firm grip at my elbow kept me close to him, yet he positioned himself so that with one quick pull, he could catapult me straight at Simon, who stood behind us, and then on to safety.
John was also a First Level. Both he and Simon could move like the wind, sail through the air defying gravity, and blend into the scenery as if they belonged there. They were lethal and adept, and legendary in their own right.
Their training was Bushi, warrior-class, based on the ancient Japanese art of Bushido. Though no one ever mentioned or categorized it as such, that was the code they lived by, as did many others in this century. It was a different world to what I had known. People fought for their lives with skills learned from childhood and thought nothing of it. It was a way of life—fight to survive. Literally. And ninjas were real.
And death and danger ruled our lives; it had been so from the day John and I had met. Now was no different from back then, except I’d become more accustomed to the daily threats, if that were at all possible. My brief and rushed training in self-defense had taught me the extreme basics of survival and combat, but the constant fear and uncertainty was still something that froze me to the core when I least expected it.
Could a person ever really get used to it? Looking at John, with his calm and cool composure, I supposed one could. He was, after all, born into a life already riddled with danger and threats. He’d been conditioned to it from birth, unlike me, who’d been thrown into this life by the circumstances of my fate.
But would I hesitate to dispense the lethal knowledge I’d acquired? No. Not for a moment. It definitely was a different world from the one I’d left behind. And I had also changed.
John directed us to a spot close to the approved and designated exit, located behind a large potted palm. The secure area was crammed with operatives: two posed as invited guests while another three stood at their posts near the exits, severe expressions on their faces. They wore black suits with red trim, the mark of Simon’s Elite team. On their faces they wore near-transparent headgear and goggles that monitored and screened every miniscule movement and individual around.
With our backs turned to them, we watched the flow of people. Loeb and Simon stood in front as a buffer. People came and went in a reserved manner, greeting us formally. I let John do the acknowledging while I stood composed, aloof and cold to any who saw. I was grateful John had insisted that I shouldn’t have to speak or behave like some docile and charitable wife of a president. He wanted me to portray power and disdain to keep the simpering politicians and tagalongs at bay. It worked.
Death and danger lurked everywhere in our lives, and today was no exception. Regardless of the tight security measures and screenings, danger still managed to slip through. Already some scuffle had taken place during our arrival. And in the distance, I was pretty sure I heard the pop of a muted firearm, followed by a yell.
And then…just when I thought I was getting the hang of this president’s wife thing, that the gala event was going smoothly, a portion of the glass-domed roof broke away like the crashing of a crystal chandelier. It muted the initial explosion that preceded it and showered us with tempered glass and metal fragments. I stared at it agape, and then found myself being propelled behind John. I was caught deftly by one of Simon’s men, then pushed sideways into the arms of another. I had enough time to register people screaming and chaos erupting before I was out the exit and standing with one of the Elites in a quiet corridor. He spoke rapidly to someone through his headgear.
John, Simon, and Loeb joined us seconds later. John grasped me by the arm, his face tight and severe. “Time to go.” John’s tone was clipped. “You’d better cancel your tour tomorrow.”
Did he sound somewhat pleased when he said that? I couldn’t be sure. Ignoring my plans for tomorrow, I matched his stride as we walked down the corridor to another exit, and then into a waiting transport vehicle.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“Clumsy saboteurs,” Simon said helpfully as we hopped into the vehicle.
What the vehicle was, I wasn’t sure. It was something like a tank with the interior of an air shuttle and the speed and agility of a Formula One racecar. It rumbled to life and sped off.
“It’s just an arts expo. Why would people want to sabotage it? What’s the point?”
“Takes all kinds to cause a stir.” Simon chuckled. He was so used to danger, to the point he no longer flinched at these minor disturbances. “The local police can handle it. Nothing to do with us.”
Simon and John had once headed the world unit for counter-terrorism. They had been a deadly combination, shutting down and eliminating many organizations. Whatever they’d done to achieve this goal, they never said, nor did I care to know. So a simple aerial disturbance with an unclear cause was nothing to raise a brow over. It was business as usual.
“But just to be on the safe side,” John said from beside me, already leaning back into his seat and getting ready to enjoy the ride back to our
hotel, “you’d better stick close by tomorrow.”
“I heard you the first time,” I snapped back.
John flicked me an annoyed glance and then looked away, working his mouth into a line. “I’ll take you myself another time. I promise,” his voice low so only I could hear, but he wouldn’t look at me. He glowered at the floor instead.
I glared at him for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll be holding you to that—you can be sure of it.” Then, I settled back into my seat, snaking my hand out to hold his.
Pesky little saboteurs or not, they still rattled my nerves.
Chapter 3
Josie lay next to him in bed. She’d tossed and turned most of the night with a fretful and annoyed spike to her manner. She was disappointed; he knew that. Seeing her city once more had been the highlight of the entire trip. Sleep eluded her now, and she grumbled into her pillow.
John grunted his displeasure with each of her restless tosses. He said nothing. To say anything now would start another of their raging arguments. Not that they argued a lot. Like most couples it was about the usual things, only their arguments were notably…notorious. Also, he hadn’t quite forgiven her for snapping at him like an ill-tempered horse.
He told himself it was only because Loeb had been there to witness it, that Josie should’ve used some measure of discretion. But of course, that wasn’t it at all. He wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to so abruptly. No one ever dared speak to him in that manner.
Until Josie.
Besides, John thought, any argument now would be pointless. He knew well enough that she knew it too. But it was her nature to gripe about things like this just to prove a point. Very childish, in his opinion.