The Master Key

by T. K. Toppin

  “What’s Cloud?” I asked as soon as the doors closed.

  “A hallucinogen. Very, very addictive.” John snorted. “I’m surprised she doesn’t suffer from its affects. She must have been properly purged at birth.”

  I studied his profile as we walked a length of corridor. “You don’t like her, do you?”

  “Why would you think that?” Annoyance made his brows knit.

  “You looked pissed off, that’s why.”

  “I have no opinion of her.”

  “Bullshit,” I retorted with a bit of anger. “You always have opinions.”

  “Fine.” Unclenching his teeth, he glowered at the path before him. “I think she thinks she’s very smart. She knows what she wants and will find ways to get it. She won’t stamp her foot, nor will she make a scene, but get it, she will.”

  “What do you think she wants?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” Surprised, I stopped walking. “What do you mean? Like, as in me as an aunt, a family?”

  John stopped and stared at me for a moment. Tiredness blemished under his eyes and unhappiness curved his mouth downward, but he kept his glower in place. “That is what I have no opinion on at the moment.” He reached out to cup my face. “But whatever it is, there is a selfishness about it. I know you’ve seen it in her—I saw you register it. Be careful.”

  I had seen it, plain as day. What annoyed me was how dispassionate he was about it, crudely so. “You think she wants to harm me?”

  He didn’t answer, only stared at me.

  “You don’t think—believe—she’s my niece?” Even to my ears, it sounded petulant. I pulled away. “She’s probably just scared, nervous. I am—I would be. She has to be…my niece. Just look at her.”

  “I have been. And I don’t like what I see. If I am wrong, then you’ll have my apologies.”

  “Your…apologies? I don’t think I like that tone.” In fact, it hurt. He may as well have punched me in the gut. How could he say it so carelessly, and be so calm? Did he not realize the enormity of this? The wild possibility, that seemed to be narrowing with every second, that this girl could be my niece?

  I must’ve recoiled because he averted his eyes as if I’d slapped his face. Rolling something in his mouth, he reached out to take my hand. I pulled away, turned, and walked off, but not before I saw the hurt in his eyes as well.

  Good, I thought with venom. Hurts, doesn’t it?

  Seething with hurt and fury, my walk broke into a jog, and I headed blindly in whatever direction I’d been facing. It was no surprise I ended up in the communal gardens I liked and found so calming.

  John could be cold and heartless without a second thought. It burned me that he felt nothing. Yes, I did understand the need to be cautious. But uncaring was another matter. How could I not care? Or feel anything? How could he not?

  Doesn’t he understand what this means?

  I slumped into my favorite bench overlooking a side of the mountain. The view was always breathtaking, as if I was in a fairy-tale world, the clouds fat and high in an impossibly blue sky. But I was semi-blind to it.

  I wondered if—hoped—John would follow so we could have a proper shouting match; one where he’d end up apologizing and groveling at my feet saying he was sorry and wrong. I looked back to check. There was no sign of him; only a few stray people, some whom I knew by name. They gave me a respectful distance, but I did note some side-eying me with a suspicious frown. The news reports and gossip mill must surely be working overtime. I could just bet they’d rush off and inform their friends they’d just seen me running into the gardens looking upset. Tongues would wag, and rumors would start, adding more fuel to the already raging fire roaring beyond the Citadel walls, wilder and more outrageous than the last. I pictured the headlines: “Half-alien spawn seen to show emotions; maybe she is human after all,” slotted next to a picture of me with extra-large green eyes to resemble said bug-eyed alien.

  Suppressing a snarl of anger, I crossed my arms over my chest and closed my eyes. Clear your head, I ordered myself. Breathe.

  But a forest of nettles bristled inside me. I felt raw and angry, hurt and scared. Most of all, agitated. Unsettled. Ready to detonate for no reason. Even my heart beat in erratic pulses.

  I sat there for some time, doing nothing more than trying to breathe evenly, slow down my heart rate, and rewind all the events that had taken place over the last twenty-four hours.

  Mrs. Patel!

  I’d completely forgotten about her. And her husband! Had the operative we’d planted at the estate reported back? I didn’t know and made a note to ask John. Oops, no, I meant Simon. I forgot I wasn’t speaking to John at the moment. But Simon was on his way to the Scrap Yard. Shit. Trudi, then? She was, after all, looking after Mrs. Patel.

  I should go and see her. I stood up to do so, but Margeaux popped into my head again. It made me realize she’d never left my thoughts in the first place. Our meeting felt unfinished. In fact, everything seemed to be that way.

  Without another thought, and deliberately disregarding John’s warning that I shouldn’t visit her alone, I marched back to Margeaux’s room.

  She was in kitchen, just about to place a plate into the washer. The room smelled of tomatoes and vinaigrette, and a sharp pang of hunger bit me. My mouth watered.

  Margeaux looked up and blinked. A small smile spread across her face, so like a child when they first awake and sees someone they love before them. It was blindingly pure in its deliverance, I almost faltered in my steps.

  “You came back.” She grinned, sheer pleasure making her eyes water.

  “I was on my way to see Mrs. Patel,” I lied. “Thought I’d just stop by to see if there’s anything else you might’ve needed.”

  “Oh, no. I am quite fine. Thank you. Please thank Mrs. Patel for me. She was very kind to me, a complete stranger.” Margeaux smoothed the side of her hair, then tucked it daintily behind her ear. Her manner was composed again but traces of her smile lingered like aftershocks.

  “I will. Mrs. Patel has always been like that. Doesn’t matter who you are, she takes care of you. But only if she likes you.” I smiled and eased my hip onto the arm of the single couch.

  Margeaux moved from behind the kitchen counter and stood before it, then leaned against it. With her uninjured hand, she cupped the elbow of the other and let her injured hand rest on her arm. Her feet were primly placed together, and a pensive look clouded her face. No matter what she did, she always seemed posed. Composed. For one envious moment, I wished I could be more like that. Right now I just felt like an idiot, sitting as I was in an awkward slouch, trying to look relaxed.

  “Am I really a guest? Or am I considered a prisoner?” Abrupt, and asked in such a calm and direct manner, it made me blink in surprise.

  “You are…” I paused, searching for a more appropriate word. Fuck.

  “It is quite all right.” A pleasant smile twitched at her mouth. “I do no mind either way. In fact, I understand you need to be careful. It is a natural response. And I would prefer it that you were thorough in your investigations regarding my identity. It is in my interest as well.”

  Uncertain how to reply, I shrugged one shoulder and smiled. Saying “sorry” didn’t seem like the right thing to say. I remembered when I was in the same position. Only I had minded, and I had been a prisoner.

  “Well, thanks for understanding,” I ended up saying. “Very grown-up of you. I do admire that.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled again. “I am almost fourteen. It is hard growing older, but I welcome the challenge. Do you think that, perhaps, I may be allowed to leave?”

  “Your room? Oh, of course.” Could she? I wondered, not sure if John would allow such a thing. She wore no security bracelet like I’d had, but to let her loose in the Citadel would make him and Simon have catatonic seizures. “But not just yet. Your presence here would first have to be properly explained. People will start wondering who you are. It’s like a small t
own here and, well, we all know one another, sort of…” I was talking too fast and, even to me, it sounded like a poor excuse.

  “I understand. But I meant after everything with me has been sorted out. And I meant, if I could leave the Citadel. To be truthful, I do not wish to stay here. I already have a home.”

  “O-oh.” Words jammed in my throat. “Oh, well. I-I guess so. I see. You want to go back home.”

  She nodded, looking down at her feet.

  “Of course, you do,” I said more gently. Of course she does. How stupid of me not to realize that. Being kidnapped and dragged halfway across the world, like how I had been, it was obvious she’d want to go back home. I knew exactly how she felt. Only she could, and I never can. “You must miss everyone at home.”

  “I do, very much.” Her eyes were still cast to the floor, but they flew up, bright and excited. “You could come, too. Meet everyone there. You will love it there. It is so peaceful and friendly, and all the monks will simply adore you and—oh,” her face went tragic.

  I leaned forward with concern. “What is it?”

  “I just realized how worried everyone would be. I was taken in the night while everyone slept and—” She pushed off from the counter and walked away, her back to me. Her thin shoulders heaved up and down in jerks.

  I hoped upon hope she wasn’t about to cry.

  “Margeaux, I’m so sorry.” I stood and walked closer. “We’ll contact them as soon as possible, if it hasn’t been done already. Simon is very efficient at what he does. In fact, I’m sure they already know you’re okay.”

  Would Simon have done that? It shamed me to think it hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d miss her home—the only home she’d ever known, or that the people there would miss her and be worried.

  I reached out to touch those thin shoulders; they twitched in reflex and she made a stifled sound. I snatched my hand away. I felt horrible, like a big, bad bully.

  “I’m sorry, Margeaux. Really, I am.”

  She nodded, her back still to me. “I understand.” She shifted and turned to face me with a tear-stained face. Her red-rimmed eyes were watery, but she smiled bravely, like a grown-up. “Do you think it will be over soon, auntie?”

  “Uh…it will be…very soon. We just have to be sure.” My heart ached, my mind muddled with images of Fern and Conrad. That single word, auntie, seemed to have unlocked a multitude of emotions. “Once it’s all sorted out, you can go back home. And I promise, I’ll come with you.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded back, not trusting myself to speak.

  “And you? You believe me? You believe what Mr. Ho discovered, don’t you?” She stared up at me looking small and scared.

  “I think,” I hesitated a moment. “I think I’m starting to believe.”

  How could she not be my niece? She was Fern, she was Conrad—she was parts of them just as much as she was a part of me. However distant or watered down, and however many years it had been, she was family.

  Chapter 14

  The Scrap Yard was a massive mega-structure of metal that sprawled like a grotesque giant insect, its six arms extending around it like rigid tentacles. Each of these arms housed a docking bay that operated independently from the main structure. The docking bays were large enough to accommodate five super shuttles as well as externally dock one deep-space cruiser.

  The arms attached to a central body and made up the entire lower half of the station. In times of imminent danger, this lower section, arms and all, could be disengaged from the upper half, which housed the living quarters, the control and navigational sectors, and of course, the precious mainframe. The lower half was designated for the production lines and distribution centers, commuter facilities, hospitality hubs, and also a collection of wholesale outlets for consumers.

  Like the lower levels, each docking bay could eject from the main body. In the one hundred and three years the Scrap Yard had been in operation, it had only been necessary to perform a full separation once, when a massive fire erupted in one of the distribution centers. Docking Bay 3 had been ejected and destroyed twelve years previously when terrorists tried to contaminate the station with a deadly virus. The new arm boasted a fully automated processing hub, complete with sophisticated scanning sensors for biohazards on shuttles deemed suspect.

  Simon and his Elites disembarked in Docking Bay 1, reserved for government and military-class shuttles. After the standard security screens and processing, they were directed to the arrivals hall, where the governor, General Ayo Mwenye met them.

  An express shuttle ride along the arm and an elevator ride up found them in the inner sanctum of the Scrap Yard—Mwenye’s office and headquarters.

  Mwenye, a tall, strapping man, just past fifty with an impeccable British accent, walked with precision, as if the military was in his genes. His dark complexion was complemented by the sleek, military-style midnight blue suit, trimmed in gold to suggest his rank and position. On either side of his collar was a single gold dot. Mwenye’s authority was law, even though the people he governed were not strictly military; they were more technologically inclined.

  “Governor Mwenye.” Simon offered a hand, and was pleased to find Mwenye’s grip firm, but not crushing. The man had control. He noted and logged Mwenye’s ramrod stiff posture and chose to ignore it. Though Mwenye had expressed his relief at meeting Simon and his team earlier, he knew the governor’s hackles were up at having the bright and shiny special Elites of the Lancaster Regime descend upon his realm to take matters into their hands.

  Mwenye was military, but he had not reached his position by dedication to service alone. In fact, aside from his strict authority, he was known for his dependability, swift action, but most importantly, his tech-savvy. In his younger days, he had thwarted numerous terrorist attacks on space cruisers using his quick mind. A man with his qualities and experience would not allow personal affronts to get in the way of what needed to be done to save the station, and the world at large. And in any case, though Simon wore no markings or insignias, he outranked Mwenye right out of the known solar system. So the governor would just have to suck it up and deal.

  “Simon.” Mwenye bit off the name. He seemed a little disconcerted by the fact Simon had no official title and looked like he wanted to add more. A true military man. Instead, Mwenye followed through with a curt, belated nod; his arm twitched as if wanting to salute.

  Just Simon. Head of security, the president’s right-hand-man, the head of every military, intelligence, and tactical deployment group imaginable—whether overt or covert. Simon was feared and respected, his authority paramount and his actions deadly. It marveled him how different people reacted.

  Mwenye clasped his hands behind his back and dipped his head down. A few moments of silence followed. The governor appeared ashamed, perhaps because it was glaringly clear he’d compromised the security of the station and all that it controlled. He’d received no reprimand and that in itself was worse than actually getting one.

  “Tell me,” Simon broke the silence with an easy tone, diving straight into business, “how far have we progressed?”

  Mwenye nodded and began to pace his sleek office, which had an impressive array of electronic devices stacked on shelves behind thick glass. On display were a variety of items, from the ever-popular game consoles to the latest in medical prosthetics, all popular brands the Scrap Yard produced. Each item was emblazoned with their individual company logos or branding. There were prototypes too, yet to be introduced into the general market, their manufacturing components and functions shrouded in strict secrecy and under tight lock and key.

  “We were successful in re-routing to manual over-ride without interruption to service. You understand that to change the code now is unnecessary, since one press of a button will effectively shut down every unit across the world in a matter of minutes. It’s a temporary measure and the system will reboot in twelve hours, with everything returning to normal. However, during this time, i
t leaves us wide open to hackers, providing they knew we are exposed.” Mwenye paused a moment; he seemed to relax now they were discussing tech defense tactics.

  “You also said they do not have the correct code. So I’ve implemented a security lock-down if a different code is entered. It should give us some time to work with, should they manage to break in. But regardless, I’ve created a massive web they must slog through to change commands over to them.”

  “How did you manage this? And the droids that have been manually shut down beforehand, while you re-routed, will they respond to them?”

  “Yes. Manual shut down of the units does not mean off-line, unless you put a blaster shot into their circuits.” Mwenye made a small smile. “We re-routed by downloading a new function command to each unit as well as the operational consoles throughout the Yard. If we are breached, they will most likely use the usual function commands to take control, then use the code to access the data and controls of the units. The new function command we downloaded to the existing droids and consoles will respond to this as a threat and go into sleep mode for the twelve hours. But once the enemy realizes the code and the consoles are useless, they will try to hack into the system to override it. For security, the Scrap Yard droids haven’t been given this new command. It’s easier to contain their potential threat here.”

  “Agreed,” Simon nodded. “If they hack in, won’t they be able to access this new function command?”

  “It will take a while, but even a good hacker will find it a lengthy process. It’s embedded in a series of folders that must be opened in the correct sequence for the command to activate.”

  Simon nodded and suppressed the urge to shake his head. Codes upon codes, sequences, secrets—it was never-ending. “And only you have access to this sequence?”

  “And my Number Two.” Mwenye stared at Simon. “In the event…they were to drug me again.”

  Quite, thought Simon. “What’s done is done, Governor. Our job now is to deflect Ho’s attempts to take control. Give me all you can spare in manpower, I’ll discuss tactics later. It’s a good plan. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to anything more than ejecting another docking bay. In the meantime, maintain full security alert, guard that sequence with your life, and watch your back. Who is your Number Two? I was not aware you had one.”