The Master Key

by T. K. Toppin

  With a scathing look at his brother, John turned and followed me.

  We walked in silence through an empty corridor. I found the smooth marble floor before me immensely appealing. The tension between us was thick with ice and practically crackling with static.

  From the corner of my eyes, I saw John make a quick glance at me. I made sure my face was set in a scowl. I heard him hiss.

  In turn, I risked a quick look at him under the guise of rolling my neck with agitation. The line between his brows were deep like trenches, his lips non-existent.

  The silence continued save the clomping of both our feet.

  Unable to bear it any longer, I broke first by mumbling an incoherent sorry.

  “Pardon me?” John’s reply was cool, and he pretended to be lost in his thoughts. He was a terrible actor.

  “I said, sorry.” I folded my arms across my chest and slowed. “For earlier.”

  “Hmm.”

  My head snapped to him, then I looked away. “Fine, then! I’m very, very sorry. Now can we just get back to normal?”

  “Josie, there’s no need to…apologize.” He cringed.

  Yes, he said it. The exact word that started this whole thing. I caught the meaning immediately and tried hard to suppress a smirk—and lost the battle. I ended up snorting a stifled laugh. “Adam was right.”

  “Was he now?” Sensing the mood had lightened, he cocked his head to me, giving me a fake scowl. “About what?”

  I hooked an arm through his, feeling better for doing it. He was warm and solid, like a reassuring rock. “That you were just trying to be objective, and protective. Because you care. When I thought you were just being a cold-hearted pig. Thank you. I over-reacted.”

  “You had a lot on your mind. I should not have been so flippant in my response.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I still shouldn’t have over-reacted like I did. I didn’t think past my own feelings. Shit,” I groaned. “I sound like such a grown-up prat.”

  A small smile tugged at his mouth. He pulled my hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently. “Sometimes,” he said, without looking at me, “I forget that not everyone appreciates my bluntness.”

  “You’re a shit, I know.” I smiled back at him. “I can be blunt, too.”

  We walked hand in hand with a light-hearted air, at ease with being together once more. The stifling cold weight had evaporated to nothingness. The rift in the earth had righted itself; the gap had closed.

  “Maybe,” John muttered with a contemplative pursing of lips, “I should allow Adam to have a set of books…to occupy him. Did you find he seemed a little odd? Like a bored animal in a zoo?”

  “I caught him picking his nose and flicking the boogers outside. I thought for a moment he was going to eat them. Fucking gross!”

  John chuckled. He seemed relieved all was well. “He still does that?”

  “Eww.”

  “I do love you.” His voice quiet, he watched me from under his brow. “Maybe I should say it more often.”

  Caught unaware, my face flushed. I tucked my lips in to bite back the broad grin I knew would erupt. My heart was melting, and I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “I can see you do, too.” He squeezed my hand. Leaning in, he kissed me lightly. “Even when you curse at me ’til you’re red in the face.”

  “When was I cursing at you?” I muttered, knowing he meant earlier. How could I reply to something—exactly what I most needed to hear—so perfectly said, at the perfect moment?

  “You didn’t say it out loud, but if looks could kill…”

  “I was thinking of something else.” I shrugged, knowing I wore a goofy expression. “And now you’ve gone and distracted me by being so mushy. When did you become such a girl?”

  Chapter 16

  The Citadel, the infamous capital of the world, lay draped across the southern mountain slopes of Switzerland, a massive, sprawling, super-structure city. Nestled close to the Valais Alps, just north of Italy, it faced Lake Geneva in the west—self-sufficient and independent from the rest of the country, and the world at large. I saw it once from above; the place was huge and I had gawked like a kid.

  If my mother were still alive, she would gasp in delight and her interior designer self would have a visual seizure. The Citadel was a brilliant fusion of both modern and old architecture styles. Sleek metal structures speared up the side of the mountain, meshing in harmony with impressive stone columns and arches, stacked one on top the other, taking full advantage of the mountains many levels, crags, and plateaus.

  Aside from housing the Lancaster governing body’s offices and council buildings, there were schools and learning institutions, entertainment facilities, sporting complexes, restaurants, bars, and shopping complexes. None of which I’d been in…yet.

  Beneath the main structure lay secret underground passages and escape routes, as well as entire blocks of rooms and facilities that comprised of emergency shelters. I had seen those firsthand months ago, when the siege had sent us fleeing into the tunnels.

  The Citadel was still considered the safest place on earth, the most heavily guarded and private city imaginable. But the recent siege had shaken its foundations, shattering its image of impenetrability. And brought a new level of boldness from outsiders, who seemed all the more willing to attempt anything to get within the Citadel walls, whether to wreak havoc or seek refuge.

  Still, with a multitude of people continuing to come through its doors, threats were expected, and so its inhabitants adjusted. To protect their safe haven, people just slotted in, fighting even harder to protect what was their home. Their stance of solidarity always impressed me. It made me want to protect the Citadel as well. After all, it was now my home.

  John and I lived in the southern sector, high up on the elevated plateaus of the mountainside and barred from the rest of the Citadel with an impressive series of security doors and checkpoints. Below us were the governmental cabinet offices, affiliated annexes, and community areas. Through the special express elevators that traversed special grids, including secret private passageways I kept discovering daily, one could get anywhere in a matter of minutes.

  My meeting with Loeb lasted a good forty-five minutes. Most of it was in argument, with Loeb doing most of the listening, with a polite and professional manner. He nodded in silence to every scathing remark I made about the media houses, and where and how they could shove it.

  Fretfulness hit me again, and I knew John noticed, since nothing passed his beady attention. I’d moved forward from our earlier disagreement, but that didn’t mean I’d forgotten how pissed off he was. I’d tagged it with care, categorized it under things I should remember not to do that would offend John. This marriage business was just too hard. I suspected John felt the same way; something we could both agree on. Maybe we’d rushed into it too fast. But, try as I might, I just couldn’t imagine not being with him.

  Margeaux, and all the glorious baggage she came with, continued to loom first and foremost in my thoughts. And Loeb’s news—that the media were demanding to know where exactly I came from—was like an annoying thorn in my side. It was expected, I’d been warned, but annoying all the same. Then the extra interview requests that came barraging in to the communications network every second. Even though I didn’t offer interviews, they asked with increasing persistence and aggression. Loeb insisted that I entertain the prospect of another interview, or at the very least, a statement.

  Place of birth aside, and the speculations I could be from the Americas due to my accent, they wanted to know if I had any relatives. Considering that was already a touchy subject, I was seething, and just about bit off Loeb’s poor, unassuming head. I made a note to apologize to him later.

  “Tell them the whole fucking point of being deep-cover is to keep your private life private,” I roared back. “What kind of stupid-assed question is that? You want my response? Read my lips: Fuck off!” And with that I turned on my heels and marched out of the office
.

  I wanted to head straight home, dive into the bed, and bury my face into the pillows and scream like there was no tomorrow. In fact, I wanted to scream and cry and throw a massive tantrum and shake anything within reach with unchecked violence. The edges of my sanity felt frayed, crackling with a chaotic energy that needed an outlet. I had to get home before I detonated…and fast.

  * * *

  John watched as Josie stormed out of the office. She looked…possessed. He wasn’t sure what, but it worried him. She’d been under a lot of pressure lately, emotional pressure. She also had not slept in some time, and it showed.

  Loeb cast a quick glance at John. Their eyes met in the age-old manner of men in sympathy with one another. John patted Loeb’s shoulder and followed his wife, knowing she’d head home, go straight to the kitchen and stand glowering at the fridge, expecting something edible to materialize on demand.

  When he arrived home minutes later via the private elevator connected to his office, he was surprised to not find her there. Ordering a scan of the rooms, he discovered she wasn’t home.

  How odd. He would’ve sworn she’d be home. The last time she’d gone missing, it had been on purpose because she’d been juvenile enough to draw a moustache on Crocker, just to be spiteful. He’d eventually found her lurking in Aline’s house, stuffing her face with some sticky pastry, hoping his sister would buffer her from his annoyance.

  He called Aline’s home and spoke briefly with Rand. Josie wasn’t there. John decided Josie wouldn’t go back to Adam. She never visited him in the evening. Mrs. Trudesson? No, Josie wouldn’t disrupt their daughter’s routine at this time of the evening. Yumi was in pre-training, and would learn the art of meditation with her mother after dinner.

  To be certain, John opened Crocker’s cabinet. The droid was still on shutdown mode and stood in the darkness, moustache-free. He patted her shoulder with affection and turned away, furrowing his brow in thought.

  Margeaux!

  Damn her.

  Josie knew he didn’t want her to visit Margeaux alone. He stormed out, almost running to the elevators that would take him to the detainees’ quarters.

  A few impatient minutes later, John strode out the elevator and glowered at the automated guard stationed there. It nodded, and a green light blinked in its chest. He’d have asked the guard if Josie had come through, but instead, with an irritable push, he engaged the door and marched into Margeaux’s room.

  A single light was on by the bedside table. Margeaux lay dozing, but not quite asleep. She jerked in surprise and scrambled up.

  No sign of Josie.

  An odd sensation ran through John, something very close to fear. For a moment, he forgot why he was in the room.

  Margeaux gaped. “President Lancaster.”

  “I’m sorry,” he almost stammered, distracted. “I thought my wife was here. My mistake.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait, sir.” Margeaux hopped off the bed and walked a few steps closer. “Thank you for the new meals I received.”

  John flicked a glance at the kitchen, remembering his offer. He made a halting nod. “I trust they were satisfactory.”

  “Yes, sir.” Margeaux tilted her head and studied him. “You do not like me.” It wasn’t a question and was delivered with a precise stab of accusation.

  Turning to face her fully, John lowered his head to level his eyes on the girl. He kept his face bland, hopefully deadly. A pose like that would’ve frozen the hearts of the more imposing enemies he’d faced, but this girl just stood there, staring up at him with an innocent tilt to her head. No. A haughty wickedness. A smugness.

  “It is not that I do not like you,” John replied with care, soft and quiet, lacing his tone with the practiced acidity and chill he’d all but mastered. He saw her hesitate, an uncertain twitch near her large, glassy eyes that looked so like Josie’s they were distracting. “It is that I do not know you.”

  “It must be quite hard for you to accept that I am Josie’s niece,” she answered. A bold statement.

  That smugness on her face is too obvious. “Until it’s proven, you will remain a stranger.”

  “I do not fear you.”

  John winged up a brow. “You should.”

  Margeaux proffered a sweet smile, like a young child. “Your threats will not distract me as you hope…Uncle.” It was clear she said it to watch his reaction.

  He gave her none.

  “You, however, fear me,” she continued. “Why? I mean you no harm. I am only a young child and have no skills. But it is understandable to fear me. I am, as you say, a stranger, which is why you have me locked up in here. I am surprised I have not been interrogated as yet.”

  “Have you not learned, child,” John kept the same chilly tone, soft as you would talk to a sleeping baby, “that your religion does not condone either boastful statements or deceptions. Now you have led me to believe that you are not who you say you are.”

  “I am not deceiving anyone. I am who I say I am.” She sounded a little petulant. “You’ve seen the proof.”

  “Which can be tampered with.”

  “But it is the truth. What are you so afraid of?”

  “A redundant question. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “Josie does not fear me any longer. She’s accepted the truth. I am her niece.” Margeaux expelled a short breath. “You should not be afraid.”

  “Hmm.” John pursed his lips. He noted another small twitch near her eyes. A nervous tic? A lapse in her control? “Fear is an old friend. Without fear, you are no longer human. Do not be ashamed of it. Your comments alone tell me that it is you that fears, very much. So do not try to convince me otherwise.”

  Of what does she fear? That her mystery would be unraveled and it be proved she wasn’t a blood relative after all? He noted and filed her manner and behavior for later use. Why is she playing this particular game? Does she think we suspect something? I wonder…

  “Stop talking to me in riddles.” She scoffed, and her leg shifted a fraction.

  Was that a tantrum wanting to erupt? “Riddles? You have a lot to learn about life, child.” With distaste, John glowered at her.

  “You’re trying to imply I’m not human. You think I’m one of those horrible clones? And I’ll have you know that I fear a great many things. But my religion, as you stated, teaches me to appreciate my fear. In the end, there is nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  “Nicely put,” John replied, still studying her with care. “Nicely repeated like a verse you learn at school. You speak with no emotion or experience. Do not try to speak beyond your years.”

  “I can only speak about what I’ve been taught.” Margeaux stood straighter, puffing out her chest. “Do you mock my religion?”

  “I do not mock religion—only hypocrites. Which you are.”

  “How dare you!” True anger flashed, pinching her face. “You know nothing about me, yet you dare call me a hypocrite? Why? Because I recite my religion like a textbook verse?”

  “That is exactly why. I know nothing about you.”

  “So that’s it, then.” Margeaux looked satisfied. “I knew it. You think I’m not her niece.”

  “You may have managed to deceive my wife, but you will not deceive me.”

  “I have not deceived her. I am her niece.”

  “I did not mean your blood-link.”

  “I don’t understand.” She almost pouted.

  Yes, petulant, he thought again. She appeared to be selfish and mean-spirited, eager and impatient, vindictive and spiteful. But most importantly, she was wickedly sly and coy. What would all that be without being bold and having a bit of misplaced pride? The question was… Why? And to what purpose?

  “Your petulance is annoying, child.” Josie flashed into John’s mind with a renewed urgency.

  “Where is my aunt?” Margeaux batted her eyelids. “I want to see her before I go to sleep, please.”

  “She is busy.”

  “I do
n’t believe you.” A small scowl formed on her face. “You just said you were looking for her. You thought she was here.” The scowl turned into a slow smile.

  “Clearly she’s not here.” He turned to go, but halted. “And I find it interesting you would show your boldness to me and not to my wife. I wonder what she will think of you now, when your true colors are showing?” With that, he left Margeaux to scowl at his back.

  John was impatient to leave the room. He’d question the girl later when his mind cleared. He’d let her sleep off her petulance and tackle her in the morning. Right now, his missing wife was all he could focus on.

  But thoughts of Margeaux tickled his mind again. What was that all about? Their interaction earlier was like a pointless, disjointed tangle. Was she growing weary of her supposed incarceration? She was scared, of course she was. What child wouldn’t be in her situation?

  Or was the child in her unable to stand quiet any longer? Margeaux’s behavior disturbed him, but he shrugged it away, refocusing his thoughts back to Josie.

  He strode back to the elevator, cursing the delay and the bitter taste Margeaux left in his mouth. He’d tried earlier to reach Josie on her personal unit. No answer. She’d probably forgotten to take it with her, or left it someplace.

  And again Margeaux’s irksome manner irritated him and infiltrated into his thoughts. It scared him, too. She meant to harm Josie in some way, that was clear. He had to find Josie. A very bad feeling crept up his spine. He shook his head with a growl, hoping to rid his mind of the girl’s face.

  John called Deidre Moorjani, who was still in her office, and asked her to run a security scan for Josie. To ease his mind, he ventured back to Adam’s via the communal gardens she frequented, even though he knew she never went there in the evenings. But she’d left the office in a boiling rage; maybe she’d needed some fresh air to cool off.

  When a quick scan of the gardens proved she wasn’t there, John continued on at a brisk pace, not even breaking his stride, and headed for Adam’s room.

  He found his brother, fully dressed, slowly—painstakingly—eating his evening meal. The sight speared John with emotion, and distress. Adam spent too much time alone.