Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said Rella. “I’m not a hero. Not at this pay grade.”

  “I’ve made a habit of being suspicious.”

  Rella tapped a long code into a keypad on the vault door. This opened a small window, and she stooped down to look through it. Romney took a step back and kept the pistol raised. She grinned at this.

  “It’s a retinal scanner. You’ve seen one before, haven’t you?”

  Romney didn’t answer. He had seen one before, but it was on a TV show. The bad guy had used a pre-owned retina to gain access to a top-secret lab. He remembered having nightmares about pencils after that.

  The vault door clicked, then beeped. The metal shuddered as massive locking rods slid out from the seats in the wall. Rella took the handle and tugged.

  “A little help would be nice.”

  Romney didn’t budge. He kept his pistol trained on her.

  The massive vault door opened into a small room. Its walls were lined with rows of polished steel boxes, each with a lock and a small number engraved on its face. In the center of the room, a table stood with four metal legs buried deep into the concrete floor. Its top was a cold, black stone material. The kind found in science class. Rella approached the table, then quickly rounded it. Her grin was still fresh.

  “Three hundred lockboxes, some with valuables, some with nothing. Let me make it easy for you.”

  She jabbed a thumb at a lockbox behind her.

  “Box 211 has fifty thousand notes in gold coins and jewelry. The diamonds in the tennis bracelet are real.”

  Rella indicated another lockbox on Romney’s left.

  “Box 123 has thirty thousand ON in hundred-note stacks. A retirement plan. Bonded, insured, guaranteed value. No harm, no foul.”

  “Box 264.”

  Rella paused. Romney watched her shoulders tense. She kept the playful grin.

  “Nope. Box 264 is empty.”

  “It isn’t,” said Romney. “I have it on good authority.”

  “Whose authority?” said Rella. Her voice was sharp, cold steel. Her smile was now a grimace.

  “It doesn’t matter. Open the box.”

  “Who are you?”

  Romney pulled back the hammer of his pistol. It clicked into place. He had lost enough time.

  “Open the box and put it on the table. Now.”

  Romney watched her eyes flick between his mask, the gun, then to his hand tensing on the grip. You don’t want to be a hero, he thought. You don’t want to do this. Don’t be stupid. Rella’s cold stare lasted for a painfully long half-minute, before she finally turned and stomped toward the lockboxes.

  Romney waited as she laboriously scanned the boxes, pulled a single key from her pocket, and turned the lock of 264. Then she slid the steel box from its shelf and dropped it on the table. The clang shook Romney, but he was quick to recover. He waved the gun at the far left corner of the room.

  “Over there. Point your nose to the wall and don’t move.”

  “You just walked into a dangerous game,” said Rella.

  “No talking.”

  He waited another excruciating half-minute as Rella moved to face the corner. He didn’t dare check his wristwatch, but he couldn’t judge how much time had passed. Romney was getting nervous now. With the gun trained on Rella, he moved to the lockbox on the table. The metal hatch lifted with a shrill creak, revealing . . .

  Nothing.

  But Romney was told to expect this. He reached into the depths and felt for the leather cord. With some finagling, he maneuvered the cord from its hook and then tilted the box forward to let it slide out. The stone rolled into view.

  This was what Romney wanted, more than the diamond-studded jewelry and the retirement money. It was a smooth stone shaped like a ball, with a length of leather cord threaded through a hoop at the top. It was the kind of rock one might expect to find at the bottom of a stream, its surface cut to perfect smoothness by years of flowing water. Its spherical shape made one believe that it could be thrown and caught. But this stone was different. For one, it was worth 150,000 ON to a particular buyer.

  Another difference between this stone and a typical bouncy ball was revealed when Romney held it in his hand. As the dull glow of fluorescent lighting caught the stone, its surface blazed into a thousand tiny, blue flecks. What Romney didn’t know at the time, and what he really should have known, was that those myriad tiny, blue flecks were known as Katarin. He knew that thing in his hand was a Katarin stone. But he didn’t know that it was a true Katarin stone.

  Romney began to feel a movement he could not place. Later, he would remember the movement was somewhere beneath him. A vibration? He wasn’t sure. If Romney knew what was actually happening, then he would have left everything behind and returned to the van.

  A third difference between this stone and any other was that this stone sat on a momentous turning point in history. This round, little stone was more important than anything in the city of Lanvale. In a sense, this little stone could control the world. And $150,000 ON was robbery. Romney had only a little time to ponder these peculiar traits. He became preoccupied with a kick to the head.

  The foot came from behind him, like a sharpened brick connecting behind his ear. He regained his composure from his new place on the floor just in time to see Rella aiming another kick at his face. Romney tumbled backward, the new kick narrowly missing his nose. He leapt to his feet, dodging backward as a roundhouse kick swept by his jaw. He leveled his pistol at Rella.

  “Get on the ground.”

  Rella did not comply. She grabbed his hand, dove into his guard, then tugged hard at his arm. Romney had never seen judo in practice before. Had he known the technical skill involved, he would have marveled at Rella’s form. In one movement of time, Romney was over her shoulder and onto the concrete floor, belly first. Rella pressed her heel into Romney’s shoulder, grabbed his flailing arm, and twisted hard. A new rush of pain drowned out the ache in his head. The gun clattered to the floor. Romney reached out with his free hand, but Rella kicked the gun away. It slid across the smooth floor and out of reach.

  “Who told you about the stone?”

  “Arrrrgh,” replied Romney.

  She twisted further.

  “Who told you about the stone? Who hired you?”

  “Grrraarrggh,” replied Romney. Bursts of light popped into view. The gun was miles away.

  The twist deepened. Rella pulled his arm toward his back. His shoulder socket was in an awkward position.

  “Tell me,” said Rella.

  Beneath the layers of pain, a spark of insight emerged. Romney flailed with his free hand and chopped wildly at an exposed ankle behind his head. Rella lost her footing. She released him and tumbled onto her side. Romney took the opportunity to claw his way toward the gun on the floor, his freed arm stiff and aching.

  The gun was a finger’s length away when Rella appeared at his side. She aimed a kick at his face, but he rolled away in time. The gun did not follow. When he looked again, the barrel was pointed at his face.

  “Get up.”

  Romney obliged. They stood face-to-face, Rella with the gun and Romney with hands raised at his sides. She clicked the safety off, then pulled back the hammer. It set in place with a soft click.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just your average bank robber,” said Romney.

  “Who sent you for the stone?”

  “Nobody did. It’s just me.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Rella’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  “Come on,” said Romney, “everyone’s going to hear it. You’d really kill me over a rock?”

  “Yes,” said Rella.

  She sighted for his heart. The bead of the crosshair was steady.

  “That Stone is ours. We are the keepers.”

  “Excuse me, but we have a ride to catch.”

  Rella didn’t look to the new voice in the room. The tall figure stood at the door t
o the vault, the barrel of a paintball gun pointed in her direction. She kept the pistol on Romney.

  “Your friends can’t save you,” she said.

  “We aren’t friends,” said Tykeso.

  Rella’s eyes were fixed on Romney. The decision was easy.

  “No one must know.”

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The slide jumped back and locked in place. Rella jerked from her firing stance and stared wildly at the gun.

  “It’s empty!”

  “Mine isn’t.”

  She turned to face Tykeso, which may have been the worst decision she had ever made in her life. This statement couldn’t be verified. Rella Candrata would never mention this subject in interviews.

  The first pepper powder ball struck her in the collarbone, spreading pepper powder into her nose and eyes. This shot would have immediately ended any altercation, much like it did in this case. But the shots kept flying. The next two hit her in the abdomen. At three hits, Rella was already collapsing to the ground, but Tykeso pulled the trigger twice more. Adrenaline can be a cruel bastard. Pepper powder is merciless. The fourth struck the wall behind her, leaving a powdered corona. And the fifth hit her in the forehead.

  No one can blame Mrs. Candrata for collapsing into a heap on the ground. Riot-grade pepper powder is a terrible way to go, even past its expiration date. Tykeso kept his gun trained on the thrashing bank manager as Romney bounded past her. He snatched the gun from the floor, then began a search for the stone necklace.

  “Come on,” said Tykeso, moving out of the vault, “we’re late.”

  Romney saw it in a corner of the room. He picked it up by the leather cord and regarded it. It looked like an ordinary stone. He swung it back and forth like a pendulum, trying to evoke the blue sparks, but nothing came of it. The lady was ready to kill him to keep this a secret. Maybe the asking price was too low.

  “I said we’re late,” said Tykeso.

  “I heard you,” said Romney.

  Romney dropped the stone into his inner pocket and made his way after Tykeso. He was not prepared for what awaited him in the lobby.

  But it made sense, when one thinks about it. If one employee was trained in martial arts, then certainly all of them knew some form of combat. Except for Ken. He was huddled under the counter and crying to himself. His coworker, Rikka, was lying among the ruins of the newly divided counting table. Her black vest was pocked with white powder.

  “What happened here?”

  Romney’s question went unanswered. Tykeso passed Cora on his way through the front door. She was burdened with two heavy duffel bags and favoring her left leg. Romney wouldn’t learn exactly what happened until several weeks later and even then, it was only in pieces.

  Cora recalled clearing the money counter when someone kicked her in the knee. She remembered rolling away and catching a glimpse of Tykeso sidling the front counter to aid her.

  Rikka grabbed for Cora’s shirt when Tykeso intervened. Rikka was quick to counter his advance, dropping an elbow into his gut as he approached, and then tackling him into the front counter. There was a brief tussle, in which Tykeso took a hard chop to the neck and nearly dropped his gun on the floor. There was more fighting, which Cora could only describe as a meeting of masters. Sliding, kicking, grappling, punching, and another nasty elbow to Tykeso’s cheek. Somewhere in this, Tykeso managed to hit Rikka with a handful of pepper powder balls, though Cora never saw exactly how it happened. The fight ended when Rikka dove for Tykeso’s legs in a blind rage, only to be lifted bodily and thrown into the counting table.

  Rikka Candrata would also ignore this subject during interviews.

  They were all inside when Jacob threw the van into overdrive. They said nothing for several long minutes as the small, blue minivan negotiated turns and sped down empty roads. They were all out of breath. Except for Jacob, who was a little chilled from the AC. They were speeding down Third Street when Tykeso ripped his mask off, then peeled the black balaclava off his face. His flat nose was bleeding. Romney gave a faint grin under his own mask.

  “I thought that went pretty well. Good work, guys.”

  “For you, maybe,” said Tykeso. He nursed his nose with the sleeve of his suit jacket.

  “Mr. Balvance,” said Cora, “I think there is something we would all like to discuss.”

  “Spit it out,” said Romney.

  “She wants know to why we were attacked by TamSpec.”

  Romney removed his mask to speak, then pulled the balaclava off like a sock. His bushy sideburns remained unscathed.

  “Tam what?”

  “Tambridesian Special Forces,” said Tykeso, in a slow, understandable tone. “Those weren’t bank tellers in there.”

  “I think Mr. Vandesko has a better understanding of their fighting styles,” said Cora, “so I will default to his expertise on this topic.”

  “Where do you learn to strike joints to disable an attacker? And where do you learn to throw elbows at vital areas of an assailant’s body?”

  Romney gave a noncommittal sound for an answer. Tykeso pressed on.

  “That is a military fighting style. Tambridesian military.”

  “Tambridesians have always used advanced physical combat styles in battle,” added Cora. “Like the Blood Leaves of Serra Goza, northeastern Tambridan. I believe their style was called Krim Gava.”

  “Krim Gava,” said Tykeso. “And you don’t learn Krim Gava in a dojo across the street. And it’s not something you learn by watching TV. It is a secret style taught only in the Tambridesian Special Forces Academy. You learn it by becoming TamSpec.”

  “Hang on,” said Romney, thief and businessman. “Let’s cut to the chase here. Are you asking for a bigger share?”

  “Yes,” said Cora, “I am. Was that what you were getting at, Mr. Vandesko?”

  “I want to know what two TamSpec Operatives were doing in an Ontaran bank disguised as employees.”

  “So, do you want a bigger share or not?”

  Tykeso’s gaze could chew through steel. He was beginning to see a trend in Romney’s thought patterns.

  “Yes,” he said, “bigger shares, for a start. And then answers.”

  Cora rummaged through a backseat pocket and found a crumpled box of tissues. She reached over Romney and offered them to Tykeso. He took one, ripped it carefully in two, and stuffed the pieces into his nose. Romney looked away from Tykeso’s glare and saw Jacob waving his hand at the rearview mirror.

  “What?”

  “So, does that bigger shares thing count for me too? Because I don’t know if you saw that driving back there, but there were some pretty killer moves involved.”

  “Yes,” said Romney, “okay. You get a bigger share. Everybody gets bigger shares.”

  Except for me, thought Romney. But that was fine. He had another prize waiting for him, a bigger one. All he had to do was get home and dial the number in his pocket.

  This would prove more difficult than he’d planned.

  ◆◆◆

  In modern Camerran, the term “bigger” can be used to compare objects of different sizes. As the astute reader likely knows, the word tells a careful listener that one object is larger in size than another. But it isn’t specific. The word “bigger” doesn’t explain how much bigger. For instance, when the three associates said they wanted “bigger shares,” each one had a different idea of quantity.

  “Hotter” is another vague Camerran term that was used in this argument, because it didn’t specify the exact heat of the room they were standing in.

  They had parked the van in the garage of an abandoned Mr. Fixer’s Automotive Elixirs. The lack of proper ventilation was slowly working its way into their psyches. Romney had shed his coat when the argument started. Now, he was loosening his tie and working at his shirt collar. Tykeso, Cora, and Jacob were crowded around him, each down to a dress shirt and slacks. They were all in various states of agitation and sweatiness.

  Romney motioned t
o the duffel bags on the ground.

  “We have to split this up quick, guys,” he said. “So, let’s just agree on equal shares.”

  “That was a TamSpec that broke my nose,” said Tykeso, pointing to the renewed tissues in his nostrils. “I just saved you from a trained killer.”

  “I had that under control,” said Romney.

  Cora stepped closer. Her black hair was parted into two sweat-laden curtains on each side of her face, which she constantly brushed behind her pointed ears. Her black, solid-frame glasses kept sliding down her sweaty face, which she would press back up to the bridge of her nose. Romney couldn’t help but notice her large, deep-blue eyes framed within. There was a serenity and a sense of curiosity in them, except that they had also been tempered into bluish Mithril rings from years of glaring at idiots.

  Cora was glaring at Romney at that particular moment. She glared at Romney Balvance more often than he liked to admit.

  “I believe Mr. Vandesko is trying to get to the heart of this discussion, if you would just listen to him. We came into this with a certain expectation of risk, but there was a much larger risk involved. And you weren’t exactly forthcoming about those details, Mr. Balvance. So, we would like to be compensated for accepting a larger degree of risk.”

  Cora had been saying some variation of this every time they were on the verge of shouting. It was slowly losing its effect.

  “Flat rate, 8,500 ON,” said Tykeso. “That is more than fair. I dragged you all out of that mess. I deserve a larger share.”

  “Did you even count what’s in there?” said Romney.

  They had counted the loot. As a group. Several times. There was 13,520 Ontaran notes in the two duffel bags, in twenties and hundred notes.

  “Over half, for over half the work,” said Tykeso. “I should be asking for the entire haul.”

  “I feel that I am entitled to a large, proportionate share as well,” said Cora. “There was a lot of research involved in finding that bank. Plus, there was the unforeseen risk of personal injury. Which you did not disclose. You also did not disclose my involvement in the actual heist portion of the plan until it was too late to back down. Honestly, Mr. Balvance, no one is happy with your leadership.”