by Cary Caffrey
"And they did all this in a day?" Suko asked. "Impressive."
Untethered from its usual train of fourteen intermodal cargo carriers and jacked up on its heavily-modified suspension, the massive rig looked unusually sprightly, like a rocket ready to explode from its launching cradle. When Victoria hit the ignition, it shook and rumbled visibly as it sat idling, as if it were as eager as she was for them to climb aboard and get underway.
Sigrid approached them. She was carrying three heavy equipment satchels—one looped over her shoulders, another in each hand—Sigrid tossed the first one up to Victoria in the cab. She was about to throw up the second when Suko came to stand by her side.
"What's this? Presents?" Suko unzipped one of the satchels. "And what new toys have you brought for us to play with?"
"Oh, things that go boom, mostly," Sigrid said, flashing her a wink.
"I thought the whole point of this operation was to keep things quiet. You know, get in, get out, unseen, unheard. Silent as a whisper, and all that stuff." She picked a claymore out of the pile and promptly began fiddling with the arming switches, watching as the lights flashed green and yellow. "Don't you think all this stuff looks a little…well, loud?"
Sigrid snatched the claymore from her fingers, stuffing it back into the satchel. "Silence is the plan. But you know what Rosa used to say. All the planning and strategizing in the world flies out the window once the first shot is fired."
"Felix Rosa said that? Our instructor? Tall guy, permanent five o'clock shadow?"
"Yes." Sigrid took the grenade from Suko's hands that she was playing with now.
"I don't remember Felix ever saying that."
"Well, he did. That's why we're taking all of this. The colonel says there are over three thousand troops guarding the Crow's Nest. If things do go south, I want to make sure we're prepared. And please put those down! Oh, for goodness' sake!" She had to tug the breaching charge free of her fingers and hold it behind her back—which was all fine and good with Suko, who delighted in wrapping her arms around her to try to snatch it back. "You'll only hurt yourself. Or worse, me!"
"I think I did," Suko said. "Look, I broke a nail."
"Looks like the colonel could spare quite a bit," Victoria said, stowing the bags. "There's enough C47 in here to blow up Santiago."
"Let's just hope it doesn't come to that."
"Any chance he's got an extra one of those longswords?" Suko said with a nod to the ōdachi harnessed to Sigrid's back. "I haven't had a decent blade since… Well, you know. Not since Bellatrix."
Suko was talking about the antique katana she'd given her, of course. The blade had been her first real gift to Suko as young lovers. And while it might seem a girlish or overly sentimental gift—a katana of all things, and one that didn't even vibrate or electrify—it still bothered Sigrid that she had lost it on Bellatrix. Just one more reason to want to kill Harry Jones.
But then Sigrid had a thought.
"You know, come to think of it, I might actually have something for you. Ah! I thought so."
Rummaging around in the third satchel, Sigrid withdrew one of the many blades stashed inside. She held it up triumphantly, though her initial enthusiasm quickly waned. While it may have been technically a katana, this blade was disappointingly ordinary. It was sheathed in a simple shirasaya of unpolished magnolia wood, rather than a more traditional lacquered koshirae. It bore neither the markings of its maker nor the proud scars of combat. Unlike Sigrid's last gift, this sword appeared quite unspectacular, and her smile quickly twisted into a frown.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's rather plain. Wait. I'm sure I can find you something better. Here, let me have that back." Sigrid tried to pry the blade back from Suko's hands, but the girl held fast to it.
"Really," Sigrid said. "It's quite horrible. Give it here. When we get back, I promise I'll have a… Suko… Suko, are you…are you crying?"
"No?" She half-turned away from Sigrid, cradling the scabbard to her breast. But it was too late. Sigrid saw the moisture pool in her eyes and the single tear escape to run down her cheek. Suko rubbed at it with the back of her hand. "I'm not."
"Oh, now I've done it. I'll get you a nicer one the first chance I get. I promise. I'm sure I saw a sword merchant in town, though I'm not sure how well her shop fared during the raid. Here, let me take that awful thing back."
"No. I want this one."
"You…you do?"
Suko nodded and gave a moist sniff. And then Sigrid understood. The sword might be plain. It might have just come from a factory where ten thousand other swords came off the same assembly line, looking exactly the same as the last. But this katana had one thing the other factory-made blades never would: Sigrid had given it to her.
Gathering Suko into her arms, with the sword crushed between them, Sigrid wiped another stray tear away with her thumb. "My Suko. Just when I thought I had you figured out."
"A bug flew in my eye."
"Of course," she said, and she kissed her. "I never suspected otherwise. Now, take your sword and get that wonderful ass of yours aboard. We're running late."
"Speaking of running," Victoria said, glancing past Sigrid's shoulder. "What do we have here?"
Sigrid turned in time to see Nuria. She was hustling to catch them before they departed. Gone were her stolen Merchantmen clothes. In their place she wore the simple one-piece uniform of the Consortium. It was much like the colonel's, though it lacked any insignia. She was also carrying what appeared to be two garment bags along with a suspicious-looking black box.
Out of breath, the young girl came to a skidding stop before them. "Thank goodness. I was worried you'd left."
"We were just about to," Sigrid said, and her focus returned to the black box in the girl's hand. "Nuria, that isn't a…?"
"My makeup kit." Nuria held it up. "I noticed you didn't have one of your own."
Despite Suko's snickering, Sigrid did her best to keep a serious face. "You brought me makeup? Nuria, you do realize where we're going? And why?"
"Of course," Nuria said. "That's why I brought this."
Nuria opened the box to reveal its contents. It was a jumbled mess, brimming with a colorful selection of lipsticks, blushes, mascara brushes and a particularly strange device which, after scanning it, Sigrid realized was for curling her lashes of all things.
"And these are from the magistrate," Nuria said, sifting through the contents.
Piled on top of the mess, Sigrid spied an even more impressive collection of jewelry. Jeweled necklaces. Jade earrings. Rings of gold and silver. Bracelets. A diamond nose stud.
"Actually, that goes down there," Nuria said, pointing to her belly button.
"Really?" Sigrid said, and Nuria nodded.
"Does it explode?" Suko asked.
Nuria looked up at her, blinking. Perhaps not sure if Suko were serious or teasing, she simply moved her head, half-nodding, half-shaking it in reply.
"And of course, your evening wear." Nuria unzipped one of the garment bags to reveal a selection of stunning black evening dresses and shoes along with an even more impressive selection of underclothes. "Your report said the courier warned you to dress formal. Did he not?"
Still distracted by the lacy undershorts and stockings, Sigrid looked back up. "Yes—I mean, of course. I'd forgotten. Thank you, Nuria. I'll take those bags."
Sigrid reached to take the garment bags, but Nuria held onto them firmly. "It's quite all right. I'll see these items safely aboard and stowed."
Nuria moved past her, reaching for the ladder to the cab. Sigrid blinked after her.
"Nuria, you're-you're not planning on coming with us, are you?"
"The magistrate told me I was to prepare you for this evening's activities. You'll need help dressing."
"And her hair could use some work," Victoria said helpfully. "What? It's true. You can't expect to infiltrate a corporate retreat with those tangles."
Sigrid glared up at her, then turned back to Nuri
a. "You're not coming. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."
"But, Lady Sigrid—"
"As much as I hate to admit it," Suko said, intervening, "we could use her help. I mean, what exactly do any of us know about accessorizing? It wasn't exactly covered in our training. And don't forget the last time you tried putting on makeup."
"Actually," a new voice said, approaching, "it was my idea she should come."
Sigrid turned to See Colonel Bhandari approaching. He was out of uniform, dressed in riding leathers, all black, with tall leather boots and a knee-length coat. Seeing him out of uniform, without his stiff dress-grays of the Consortium, he appeared far younger than she'd realized. But it wasn't his change of attire that most surprised her. It was the fact that he was gliding toward her atop the longspur she'd stolen from Bins. And he wasn't alone. Two others rode with him, a man and a woman, both of them on longspurs of their own.
"You look like jackers," Sigrid said.
"Good. Because that was indeed our aim."
Sigrid crossed her arms, staring up at him. "Am I to gather you're planning on coming too?"
"The roads between here and Portillo aren't to be traveled lightly. The Consortium. The Cabal. The CTF. Even the Syndicate lays claim to that territory."
"And then there's the jackers," Jaffer said.
"Indeed," the colonel said. "I can't afford to have you fall prey to any traps along the road. Your duty lies in Portillo, Ms. Novak. Ours is to get you there alive. My soldiers and I will ride as your outriders. If there is to be trouble, we'll have it well sourced out and taken care of."
Sigrid didn't like the sound of this at all. First Jaffer, then Nuria, and now the colonel. And of course, there were Suko and Victoria. There were far too many people willing to endanger themselves on her account. Sigrid was of half a mind to leap onto the colonel's longspur and make her own way and leave them all safely behind. Of course, it wouldn't do any good. They would follow. They would always follow.
Well, if she couldn't leave them here…
With her hands behind her back, Sigrid circled the colonel and his men, as if putting them on inspection. The three soldiers responded, remaining perfectly at attention. Sigrid looked them up and down, then inspected their rides. The three longspurs were done up in much the same way as the jackers' rides she'd encountered coming out of Punta Arenas. High handlebars. Long, extended front spokes supporting the repulsor lifts. They had all the details correct, right down to the flames painted along the outboard fuel cells.
"And how exactly do you expect to deal with traps and ambushes on these?" Sigrid asked. "I don't suppose it's hard to guess your plan?"
The colonel grinned. "Simple. If we encounter a trap, we'll simply set it off. If there's an ambush, we'll draw their fire."
"You'll get yourself killed," Sigrid said.
"We are expendable, Ms. Novak. You are not."
Sigrid sniffed. "I'm afraid none of us are expendable, Colonel. But if you are to come, then I want to be perfectly clear about one thing."
"Of course."
"You haven't even heard what I'm proposing."
"You're going to tell me that you're in charge and that I am to follow your orders."
Sigrid failed miserably at hiding her surprise and her eyebrows shot up. "Well, I was. I mean, I am. This is my command, Colonel."
"Yes, Ms. Novak."
"So, you and your men are comfortable taking orders from me—knowing what I am?"
For the first time since meeting him some five days ago, Colonel Bhandari smiled.
"Ms. Novak, it is precisely because of who you are that we are prepared to follow. In fact, I can think of no greater honor than to serve you now."
~ - ~
Word of the mission spread quickly, and a crowd was already gathering in the street to see them off. There was an excitement in the air, something that went beyond simple curiosity. Sigrid could feel it all around her, coming at her in waves. One by one the massive transport trains rumbled to life, queuing and taking up their positions to depart. The roar of their engines shook the ground, but not so loud as to drown out the cheer that rose up from the crowd.
Colonel Bhandari's flight of longspurs swept around them to take their place at the lead, clearing a path through the dozens of people who stood cheering. They cheered louder as Victoria and Nuria climbed the ladder to Jaffer's waiting rig, but not nearly so loud as when Sigrid appeared.
Dressed in her full battle kit and with her longsword clasped in her hand, she made her way through the crowd, which parted for her like a sea of reeds. She heard their whispers of "Night Witch." Some of them even reached out to touch her as she passed. Word of her rescue of the refugees and her battle with the mercenary tanks had already spread through the trading post, although in the latest tellings of the tale, it was she who had destroyed the mercenary tanks, rather than being rescued herself.
Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, the magistrate herself, awaited her by Jaffer's rumbling cargo hauler.
"So much for slipping away unobserved," Sigrid said.
"I'm afraid there are few secrets in the Crossroads these days," the magistrate said. "You're a hero to these people."
"I haven't done anything yet, Magistrate."
"Haven't you? You are the Night Witch, Ms. Novak—or so they would believe. You are the assassin of the Council. You have slain their corporate masters and freed them from a life of servitude. They are bound to be grateful."
"Independents did those things, Magistrate. Not me. I'm afraid I was just their tool. Perhaps Harry Jones is the one they should be cheering."
"Harry Jones isn't a hero, Ms. Novak. But you are."
Her? A hero? She doubted that. If there was a hero in their midst, it wasn't Sigrid, but she knew who it was.
Sigrid turned and looked back at the trading post. Only hours after the attack, most of the rubble was cleared away, and work to mend the streets and buildings had already begun. The homeless would be sheltered and fed; the Crossroads would be rebuilt and their lives restored.
"It's you," Sigrid said. "You're the hero, Magistrate. You who found these people work. You built them a home. If either of us is to be called a hero, I think we both know who that is."
"You are kind to think so, but I'm afraid the people of the Crossroads will see me as little more than another bloated bureaucrat. But you, Ms. Novak, they will always see you as something more. I'm afraid you're a hero, whether you like it or not. Good luck to you, Ms. Novak. The next time we meet—"
"Lars Koenig—"
"And Harry Jones."
"Yes, Magistrate. Lars Koenig and Harry Jones will be dead. You have my word."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Smith & Jones
For decades he had gone by dozens of names—so many, in fact, it could be forgiven if he lost track of them himself. But Harry Jones never forgot a name. Not his. Not anyone's. It was for that reason he found himself so annoyed when Lars Koenig, the self-proclaimed marquis di Valparaíso, couldn't be bothered to keep his name straight.
"You there!" Lars said, snapping his fingers. "Smithers."
"That's Smith, sir," Harry Jones said, in reference to his current alias. He'd used this alias before. It was fitting that tonight he would use it again, though it would be for the last time.
Lars Koenig waved him over. Dutifully, Harry Jones obliged. He didn't do this out of any sense of subservience. He did this because this was the role he'd chosen to play: the role of a loyal and obedient servant, a role he'd played many times before to great effect.
He'd made a career of being invisible, working at the sides of people like the marquis—women and men who never gave him more than a passing glance. No one would suspect him—because they would never even notice him. They never saw him coming. The marquis might think he'd risen to the top, but Harry knew the truth, and he knew who was really pulling the strings. How many corporations had he brought to their knees this same way? He'd lost count years ago.
&nb
sp; "Sir?" Harry said, oozing disinterest.
"Our guests will be arriving shortly," Lars Koenig said. "I trust you've made all the necessary arrangements?"
"Of course, sir."
"There's a lot riding on this…"
"Smith, sir," Harry Jones said.
"Right. Smith. I've got a lot at stake tonight. I can't afford any mistakes. Now, let's go over this plan of yours again. Walk me through it."
"Of course, sir."
In the grand ballroom of the Chateau di Portillo, and under the watchful eye of Lars Koenig, Harry Jones walked stiffly to the wide buffet table. It was currently under guard by several uniformed servers in their black ties and tails. They were armed with pressed white napkins, which they held draped over their forearms.
"As per your request," Harry said, "we will be serving lobster thermidor—"
"Lobster? That's your plan? Is it even real?"
Harry tried not to roll his eyes. "Of course not, sir. There hasn't been a real lobster on Earth for more than one hundred years."
"Of course. Right. Go on."
"While the lobster is artificial, we have arranged for real lamb, sir. Quite a good stock from around these parts. Lamb, along with a vast selection of sea greens. Fine wines have been shipped in from across the globe. And, as you can see, the pastry selection is beyond compare."
Lars eyed the spread with a certain skepticism. "Don't let me down, Smith. I only hired you because they said you were the best caterer in the Southern Territories. If this fails to impress, this is on your head."
Not waiting for a reply, the marquis spun on his heel and left.
Caterer. That was what the marquis thought he was. It was tempting to grab one of those pastries and mash it into his face, but that would hardly serve his purposes. Harry only had to endure his role as servant for a few more hours. Soon, this would all be over.
"Fear not, darling," a decidedly feminine voice said at his side. "You will be done with the marquis soon enough."
Harry Jones turned to see his wife, Emily Gillings-Jones, at his side. Inwardly, he smiled. This was his victory—to have her back with him again, working side by side. She'd been gone from his side for too long. How many years had they been forced to exist apart? Too many.