by Lili Zander
A fireplace is to the left of me, a fire crackling in the hearth. To the right is a fully stocked bar. A glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, spilling golden light everywhere. Two large couches are arranged at right angles to one another.
Doors are set into the walls on either side of me. “Let me give you the tour,” Ragnar says. He opens the door on the right. I follow him into a bedroom. The sheets are gray silk, the mattress thick and soft, and the bed, large enough for five people, is piled with pillows. Gray silk drapes line each side of the dome wall, ready to block out the weak light from the outside. Once again, the floor is carpeted, and vases containing flowers dot the small tables on either side of the bed.
“There’s a freshroom through there.” Ragnar gestures to a door. “These will be your quarters. I hope they are adequate.”
He brought flowers and silk sheets and fluffy pillows to a war zone.
He looks at me, waiting for an answer. “They’re fine,” I manage.
“My quarters are to the left of the living room.”
“Shall we see them?” I ask blandly. I’ll be honest; I’m judging him a little. I’m absolutely shocked that he brought all these luxuries here. His soldiers, the people who are going to be putting their lives on the line for him, are sleeping in barracks and Ragnar’s living like he’s still on Starra?
He raises an eyebrow. “Of course.” He leads the way into his rooms, and the moment he opens his door, I have to admit I judged him prematurely. Ragnar’s room is pretty sparse. There’s a large bed, but it’s not covered with a dozen pillows. No flowers. No carpet on the floor. No silken drapes over the windows. Our side is distinctly nicer.
Ragnar shoots me a mocking look. I flinch but hold his gaze. I deserve it.
We make our way back to the living room. “Are any of you hungry?” Ragnar asks. “I can have food brought in.”
I shake my head, as do the others. “Strategy meeting then?” he asks Saber. “Zeke, Nero, please join me. Raven…”
I cut him off before he can tell me I’m not invited. “I don’t know anything about military strategy. I’ll stay here.”
I enjoy my time alone tremendously. I watch the holos. The tabloids are gossiping about a party Empress Astrid attended. They show a vid of her arriving. She’s wearing a deep blue gown that sparkles every time she moves. Her hair is swept up, and she’s wearing a jeweled tiara that undoubtedly costs more money than I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Prince Ragnar was once again nowhere to be seen,” one of the hosts says, a skinny vampire with vividly purple hair and a sneer on her face. “He wasn’t at the First Night party either.”
“I hear he’s overseeing the cleanup of the Uncharted Reaches.” Her co-host, a chubby woman wearing too much makeup replies. I don’t recognize either of them, but then, I didn’t really have a lot of time to watch the tabloids back on Boarus 4.
Purple-Vampire snorts. “What does Ragnar know about war?” She presses a button on her console, and a clip plays. It’s Ragnar, his arms around two women, sauntering into some kind of fancy party. He says something that the camera can’t catch to his companions, who smile in agreement. The three of them rush through the mansion and take a diving leap into the swimming pool outside. The camera pans to the other guests, and I can see horror and shock in their gazes. Except for Empress Astrid. Astrid is laughing at her brother. “This is the man who is going to lead our troops? He’s playing at being a soldier.”
Irritated by her snap judgment, I change the channel. I flip through the offerings, but my attention isn’t on the holos. I’m thinking about Ragnar. The tabloids dismiss him as a lightweight, which is probably just the way he likes it. Ragnar’s survived assassination attempt after assassination attempt. It’s to his advantage that people underestimate him.
But there’s a big difference between the prince’s public facade and his real self. His soldiers are willing to risk their lives for him. Saber, Zeke, and Nero clearly respect him. Gerra Clay and Patrik Keval treat him like a formidable opponent.
And you? What do you think of Ragnar?
I shy away from that thought.
I’m dozing off in front of the fire when the door slides open, and Ragnar enters the room. I sit up. “Where are the others?”
“Right behind me.” His smile is tired. “Don’t worry, they’ll join us in a minute.”
He looks exhausted. I feel a pang of sympathy for him. “Thank you for the room. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.” He sits on the couch across from me. “I’m sorry Ivar couldn’t get the transfusion to work.”
“It’s okay. He said he’d try again in a few weeks.”
He nods. “I needed him back in Starra.” He leans back and props his legs on the table. “The scientists that created the virus had years to design it. We have weeks to find a cure. Ah well. Where’s the glory if it’s easy?”
“What glory? According to the holos, you spend all your time diving into pools at fancy parties.”
“You saw that?” He looks amused. “In my defense, it was a painfully boring party.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He nods. “Why not bunk with the soldiers? Wouldn’t it be better for morale if you’re one of them?”
“I’m not one of them,” he says bluntly. “I will never be one of them, and it’s condescending to pretend otherwise. If I'm there, they can't let off steam. They can't bitch about the Empire. They can't grumble about the guy in the port who wouldn't give them a permit or make jokes about who they’d like to fuck.”
“Ah.” I wipe my palms on my pants. “Are you really going to kill Gerra Clay?”
“Yes.”
He gets up from the couch, crosses the room, and pours himself a glass of slenti. He inclines the bottle in my direction, and I shake my head. I need all my wits around Ragnar. I’m not yet ready to let down my guard. “Because you want to sleep with me?”
He takes a slow sip of his drink. “Sure.”
No. He’s lying. This is an answer the tabloids would believe, but Ragnar isn’t the person they make him out to be. “What’s the real reason?”
I don’t expect him to answer. Saber has warned me that Ragnar doesn’t explain himself. I’m bracing myself for a polite but pointed rebuff. “Two reasons. The less important one is that Gerra and Patrik have sent three sets of assassins after me in the last ten days, and I’m extremely irritated with both of them.”
“And the more important reason?”
“The children Gratvar enslaved. Gerra is a member of the Ruling Council. What the fuck was she thinking? Humans outnumber vampires in the Empire. Do you have any idea what would happen if this got out? Equality Pact would fan the flames, and humans would revolt. Rightly so. Millions would die.”
“That’s why you’re killing her? To preserve peace?”
He gives me a mocking smile. “Is that not altruistic enough for you?”
Saber’s words ring in my ear. The real reason, even though he will never admit it, is because Ragnar does not like harming innocents.
“I don’t believe you.”
There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Ragnar calls. A man wheeling a cart of food enters the room. “Should I put this in your quarters, sir?”
“Please.” He turns back to me. “Why do you think I’m killing her then?”
“Because they were children and they were defenseless. Because they were torn from their families and locked in a cargo hold, as if they were animals. Because you know what it feels like to lose your childhood.”
His eyes rest on me. “You don’t know me, Raven.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But Saber, Zeke, and Nero all believed, without exception, that you would help, and I trust their judgment.”
The door opens, and my vampires walk in. Saber looks at me, and then at Ragnar, and at me again. “Everything okay in here, Raven?”
“Everything’s fine.”
A mask slides over Ragnar’s face. “I wa
s just about to invite Raven to have dinner with me.” He gets to his feet and holds his hand out to me. “Will you join me in my quarters?”
I get up, ignoring his outstretched hand, and look through the open doorway into his quarters, where the man has set the table with two table settings, covered dishes, and more damn flowers. It looks cozy and intimate.
He assumed I’d say yes.
I don’t know where it comes from, but white-hot anger fills me. This is a vampire used to getting whatever he wants, and now he wants me. He thinks he can snap his fingers and I’ll come running, just like every other woman that passes through his life.
I refuse to be a foregone conclusion.
“Sorry.” I don’t sound the slightest bit apologetic. “I have prior plans. Zeke and I are going to see Barnett’s Folly.” Giving Ragnar a vicious smile, I cross the room and lace my fingers in Zeke’s. “Shall we head out?”
Zeke winks at me. He lets go of my hand long enough to grab an unopened bottle of slenti from the bar, and then the two of us walk out of there.
As I leave, Saber starts to laugh. “Ah, Ragnar. When was the last time you didn’t get your own way? This is going to be good.”
The last thing I hear is Ragnar’s rueful chuckle. “It’ll be different, that’s for sure.”
29
Zeke
Barnett’s Folly was an interlude, a moment for Raven and I to catch our breaths before we went to war. We talked. We saw the sights. We made love.
But war won’t be denied.
We have to be careful. Gerra Clay is not stupid. Family Clay and Family Thorsson have a peace pact that dates back to the time of Empress Chela’s abdication, but despite that, she has to know that if Ragnar finds out who sent the assassins, he’ll retaliate. She’ll be bracing for counter-attack.
Ragnar’s sent a small advance team to Banrilia. Nehal Kuri and Stefan van der Klein are posing as a vampire couple in the market for banned mind-altering drugs. They report that the so-called Pleasure Planet is on high alert. “Automated checkpoints everywhere,” Stefan says to Ragnar when he checks in. “They’re checking identities against ShaydeNet.”
ShaydeNet is an Empire-wide identity database. Facial recognition, DNA, fingerprints, everything is stored in one central database. “We’ll be fine then,” Ragnar replies. “Tomas took care of ShaydeNet. Our fake identities will hold up.”
“There are also reports of random manual checkpoints,” Nehal warns. “We haven’t run into any of them, but I overheard a couple of Oensi grumbling about running into a dozen inept soldiers outside Section Thirteen.”
I frown. If we hit a manual check, we’re screwed. Nero and I are blessedly anonymous. To a lesser extent, so is Saber. But everyone knows Ragnar’s face. “We’ll need disguises.”
If Ragnar is tense by the prospect of landing on a hostile planet, he doesn’t show it. “I have an idea. Give me thirty minutes.”
He disappears into his quarters. When he emerges half an hour later, my mouth falls open. Ragnar is dressed in the clothing that was the height of Empire fashion fifteen years ago. A sky-blue calf-length tunic worn over a pair of neon yellow puffy pants. His shoes match the tunic. He’s shaved. His hair is greasy-looking. He looks fifteen years older, and when he nears us, I recoil from the odor of stale booze mingled with sweat.
He takes in our reactions. “What do you think?”
“I’m wavering between admiration and revulsion,” Saber says, horror coating every syllable. “What the fuck are those pants? My eyes will never be the same again.”
Ragnar barks out a laugh. “I have outfits for the rest of you too. Get changed, everyone. We have boarium to recover, and Gerra to kill.”
Over seventy percent of Banrilia is water. We land in Calder in a spaceport in Section Thirteen, only a few minutes away from the ocean. The scent of rotting fish greets us when we emerge outside. Raven wrinkles her nose. “Why does it smell so awful?”
Awful doesn’t begin to describe the odor. “A hundred years ago, Banrilia used to be a flourishing food planet,” I tell her, fighting the urge to gag. “A few fishing villages still try to eke out a subsistence living farming the ocean, but more often than not, their product ends up rotting in ports.”
Her face hardens. Food was always scarce in the re-education camps. Raven must find the waste appalling. “What a lovely place this is,” she says.
I don’t reply. There’s really nothing to say.
According to the intel Ragnar’s people have procured, Gerra Clay is going to be visiting a club in Section 14 called Club Tranche. Our plan is simple. We’ll watch Ragnar’s teams retrieve the boarium. Once the precious fuel is safely in our possession, Ragnar, Saber, and Nero will take a small strike team to Club Trance to take Gerra out. Raven and I, along with a handful of guards, will head back to the Valiant and wait for them there, ready to take off as soon as they return.
It’s a deceptively straightforward plan, but a million things can go wrong. I don’t normally worry about what could happen, but this isn’t a routine operation. This time, we have Raven to protect.
Leaving her behind on Gao 69P wasn’t an option, not with Marya Revit on the hunt, but I hate the idea of bringing her to Banrilia. I hate exposing her to the sleaze that is this planet. I offer a silent apology to Saber. I’d told him to cut it out when he threatened to lock Raven up to protect her, but right now, I know exactly how he feels.
We pile into a rental skimmer and head toward Section 13. Nero drives. Saber sits in the front, and Ragnar, Raven, and I huddle in the back. We pass through a dozen automated checkpoints. Each time, drones scan our identities and clear us to move on. “Most of Banrilia’s security is done by drones,” I tell Raven. Talking keeps my nerves at bay. “There’s less carnage that way. It’s not a safe planet.”
“It’s a wretched piece of shit hellhole,” Nero says cheerfully. “And for that, I’m grateful. We’re almost there. I think we’re in the clear.”
He barely finishes talking when purple lights flash for another checkpoint. This time, it’s a manual one. Fuck.
Nero slows down with a sigh. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Three soldiers run the checkpoint. All vampires. “Can we take them?” Raven murmurs.
Saber answers. “If it comes down to it, yes. But if we do, we blow our cover. And at the slightest hint that something’s wrong, Gerra’s security forces will hustle her off-world.”
We fall silent as one of the soldiers strides toward us. Nero rolls down his window. “Where are you from, and where are you going?” he asks, his voice hard and unfriendly.
Nero gives the guy an expansive smile. “Banaras,” he says. “We’re going to Le Saphir.” He winks at the man. “There’s nothing like the private rooms there if you know what I mean…”
The soldier remains stone-faced. He shines his light inside the skimmer, and his gaze runs over me, then Raven, and stop on Ragnar.
Uh oh.
“Have I seen you before?”
Ragnar doesn’t miss a beat. He nods eagerly. “I won the main hand seven years ago,” he boasts. “Got my picture in the holos and everything. Fastest draw in the galaxy, they said about me.” He gives the soldier a wide, beaming smile. “I saved the clips. Mercy Banu interviewed me. Mercy Banu, can you imagine? The guys at work couldn’t believe their eyes.” He holds out his screen. “Want to watch it?”
The guard draws back as he catches a whiff of the stink of stale booze rolling off Ragnar. “Not even if you paid me, buddy.” He runs the ID scanner over each of us and then waves us through. “Enjoy your time at the Pleasure Planet.”
We move again. When the checkpoint is safely behind us, I exhale in relief. “That was close.”
“Too close,” Nero says, his voice dark. “I’ve got a finely developed instinct for trouble. That soldier stared at Ragnar a fraction too long before he waved us through. We need to be ready to evacuate in a hurry.”
The Command Central is a plain un
marked plasteel building located in the middle of the Family Clay warehouses. Nehal Kuri and Stefan van der Klein are there when we arrive, and they’ve already set up the equipment. Three large screens cover the walls. A long table dominates the center of the room. “Tomas Cabal is standing by,” Nehal tells us. “As are the warehouse teams.”
I take a seat at the table and plug in my equipment. Ragnar sits down. “Six soldiers are patrolling the perimeter,” Nehal continues. “With your permission, we’ll join them, Sir.”
Ragnar nods. “Thank you.”
The two of them leave. I bring up the three warehouse teams on the main screens. Thirty-six soldiers in all, three teams of twelve. They’re dressed in black from head to toe. Hoods cover their faces. Night is falling, and they’ll blend into the darkness.
I zoom in on the team leads. Jun Watanabe is a veteran Imperial Army captain whose reputation precedes her. She racked up victory after victory, yet she was repeatedly passed over for promotion because she’s human. She’d retired five years ago. I had no idea Ragnar had recruited her.
Sara Boutros, a vampire I don’t know, leads one of the other teams. Egon Dalsgaard, a human I know by reputation, leads the third.
There’s a lot of talent invested in this mission.
I route Tomas’s feed to a smaller screen in front of me. “Tomas, can you hear me?”
Cabal nods. “Loud and clear.”
Tomas will provide primary support to the three teams. If need be, I’ll back him up. “Good. Ragnar, you’re all set.”
Ragnar stands up and moves to the middle of the room. “Jun, Sara, Egon. Can you hear me?”
All thirty-six soldiers instantly become alert. “Yes, Sir,” three voices say in unison.
“Excellent. One of the warehouses we’re searching contains stolen boarium. Finding it is extremely important, but it is not more important than your safety.” He takes a deep breath. “The warehouses could be booby-trapped. They’ll be guarded. Be extremely careful. I don't want anyone taking any unnecessary risks. I definitely don't want to lose anyone tonight. Go in and check the warehouses. Get out if anything seems wrong.”