by J Jordan
“Don’t worry about that,” said Rikka, pulling a duffel bag from the floorboard. “I’ve come prepared.”
She zipped open the bag and revealed its contents, a small armory taken from the guard station of the interrogation center.
“Are you serious? Do you have any idea how illegal this is?”
Tykeso stifled a chuckle, then became gravely serious as Cora turned to him. Rikka looked up at Cora in the rearview mirror with a stricken look on her face. Her tone was reproachful.
“I was going to let you pick first.”
“None for me, thank you. I would much rather have a chance for parole on my lifetime prison sentence. Not that I’m ungrateful for you breaking us out of an OIB interrogation center, which I didn’t even know existed until a few hours ago. But I must respectfully decline any further additions to my brand-new rap sheet.”
Judging from Rikka’s expression, this had cut deep. Tykeso turned in his seat to view the selection. Rikka kept her accusing gaze on Cora’s reflection in the mirror.
“Mr. Vandesko, would you like the carbine or the submachine gun?”
Tykeso took the submachine gun from the bag and checked the magazine. It was fully loaded.
“I guess you’re right. It is worse than felony speeding. And reckless endangerment with a motor vehicle.”
“And trespassing with intent to commit a crime,” said Rikka, selecting a handgun with laser sight. “Can’t forget that one.”
“You have to draw the line somewhere, I guess,” added Tykeso.
“Are you trying to peer pressure me?”
“No, no. It’s fine,” said Rikka. “It’s just that you pacifists are all the same. Only thinking of yourselves.”
“I support your decision, Cora,” said Tykeso, adjusting the fold-out stock of his own weapon. “Though I must say it will put us at a significant tactical disadvantage.”
“Shut up and give me the assault rifle.”
They advanced on the front doors in single file, Rikka taking the front and Tykeso watching the rear. Cora moved between them, assault rifle leaned against her shoulder like an Ontaran revolutionary. Or, at least, it was how they held them in paintings on the subject. It should be noted that Cora’s forte was in Camerran history. As they reached the elegant glass double doors, Agent Salinger stepped through to usher them into the building.
Once inside, Rikka moved to the large receptionist desk, where she wheeled the unconscious night receptionist into a corner and began searching through her computer. The results troubled her. Cora approached the OIB agent cautiously. He would likely recognize their weapons, though he seemed much more interested in watching the halls for signs of intruders.
He briefly turned to Cora and smiled. Then he turned his attention to Rikka.
“Do you have the stone, Lady Rikka?”
Rikka paused her work to look at Salinger.
“Lady Rella keeps it now.”
“And she knows what to do when the time comes?”
Rikka nodded, once more absorbed in administrator menus.
“Where is Romney?”
Agent Salinger gave one of his cooler smiles. This unsettled Cora.
“He should be at the top of KR Tower as we speak. May I?”
He plucked the carbine from her shoulder and repositioned it in her hands. After a few guiding shoves, Cora was in a proper fire stance. Salinger nodded at her form, then politely tugged her finger out of the trigger guard. With this, he gave her a light pat on the back.
“Don’t worry, he is in good hands.”
◆◆◆
Rella Candrata would admit much later that revenge was on her mind when she reached the top of the Khyber-Rondo Tower. It played a significant part throughout their preparations too. The medium-sized harness had fit Romney well enough, but it was so much better to watch him struggle into the small. And, of course, the straps didn’t need to be as tight as they were, but Rella pulled each as taut as she could and tried to keep a straight face at Romney’s growing discomfort. At this point, she knew her stern look had cracked in places. She assured him it needed to be skintight for his safety.
There was something deeply satisfying in seeing Romney look down at the Lanvale streets, his eyes like fear-stricken marbles, his face a weasel-like mask of terror. Just like a ferret on its back, in a bathtub. And the quiet mumbling was a special treat.
She had also promised him a countdown before the jump, which she conveniently forgot as they leapt from the building. She would only realize this later in the evening, and it would bring a smile to her face. But, of all these things, nothing compared to Romney’s screams as they fell from the observation deck of the Khyber-Rondo Tower. It was like music to her ears.
◆◆◆
This was the right thing to do. Garn would see it in time, Thera too. Everything was under control. It would all go off without a hitch. Devon sat in his executive leather chair and watched the scene unfold in the lobby. He looked up to Lorna, who had her feet kicked up on the lip of his crescent moon, postmodern desk. He had just finished explaining the situation to her and apologized for not telling her sooner. Of course, Lorna agreed to help. She wanted this more than anyone. Why didn’t Mila see that? Lorna was their greatest ally. And soon enough, she would play her part. Devon smiled at his older sister.
“We can handle this one without Mila,” he said. “Go to the lobby and welcome our new guests.”
Lorna’s eyes flashed with the horrors that awaited them. Her grin was awful in the soft light. Perfect. Without a word, she picked up Marie, chambered an armor-piercing round, and moved for the elevator. The final pieces were now in position. Devon turned his chair to the Lanvale skyline. He looked down on all the twinkling little lights and the tiny people clinging desperately to them. They would be the last to go.
Devon had been plotting this day since before he could remember. Each detail of the plot was crystalline in his mind’s eye, like so many paintings ready to be uncovered. The first ones to go would be the movers and shakers of the world, those who fed the small ones, the ones who gave them their tiny dreams to chase. All that detritus would be kindling for the flame. The smart ones would come next. The makers and the thinkers, the ones who dreamt up those insignificant hopes, those hollow desires. Then their champions would fall, the builders and doers, with their inspiring speeches and their glorious deeds. No great deed could ever conquer annihilation. Then the wise, the ones who always brought solace in dire times. Their wisdom would not save them from the coming flames. And once the small ones had no one left to turn to, they would flock to Devon. And all their little hopes and their insignificant dreams would burn, like everything else.
Devon watched this meaningless world below and saw the great dawn that awaited them. He smiled at pyres and crumbled ashen mounds. It would be a truly beautiful thing. A dawn of bone and cinder.
But then his smile failed. Devon watched a small, black shape approach the Reymus Building. The dark shape swooped low and then made a wide arc to adjust its incoming angle. He jumped from his chair to watch it, as it passed below the floor. There was a small flash from the shape, then a loud pop that mixed in with the sound of broken glass. Devon could make out two dark figures as they disappeared beneath him, into the floor below. He snatched a walkie-talkie off of his desk.
“Lorna, change of plans. Get to the maintenance bay. Protect the treasures.”
◆◆◆
“Whoa,” said Agent Yaldarra. “Glass, incoming!”
She propped her riot shield against the car, protecting herself and Agent Kinsey from the sprinkling of glass.
“That was insane,” she continued. “He just shot through a window and parachuted into the opening. That’s the kind of stuff you see in action movies. Who is this guy, some kind of secret agent? Arindale, did you see that?”
Agent Kinsey stared up at the opening, her mouth a thin line, her teeth clamped together underneath. She was coming to a conclusion she didn’t like. To b
eat Romney Balvance, you had to play his game. She plucked a radio out of the hands of a passing Lanvale PD officer and yanked him along.
“This is Agent Arindale Kinsey with the OIB. I need an airlift to the top of the Reymus Building, ASAP.”
A voice came up from the static, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Negative, roof landing is out of the question. The only landing zone is occupied. Commuter class helicopter. Designation 2, 1, Echo—”
“We’re not landing on the roof,” said Agent Kinsey. “There’s a brand-new opening on the north face of the building, one floor from the top. That’s my entrance.”
There was a dumbfounded silence on the line, as pilot and copilot argued the feasibility of a midair drop-off through a broken window. Their bird wasn’t equipped for that sort of thing. She wouldn’t have enough clearance to land inside. Kinsey interrupted their heated discussion.
“Gentlemen. In five minutes, I want to be through that window taking Romney Balvance into custody. He is armed and dangerous, and I will do everything in my power to stop him. If that means jumping out of a helicopter into an open window, then so help me Goddess I will do it. I don’t care if it’s your bird or someone else’s, I want to see a Lanvale chopper waiting in the street in two minutes.”
A voice came back from the other end. It almost achieved the ferocious undertones it was going for.
“Women can be helicopter pilots too, you know.”
Kinsey dropped the walkie-talkie on the ground. Its owner, still attached, picked it up and rubbed it on his shirt.
“That’s Sheila,” he said. “She’s good people.”
◆◆◆
The landing looked impressive from the outside: the two paratroopers passed gracefully through the new opening in the glass window. They would land softly, unhook their chute and their harnesses, ready weapons, and start their well-timed heist of the world-famous Reymus Collection. At one point, Rella would free her blonde locks from her helmet, and let them fall in a messy tussle along the sides of her face. Romney would appear in the frame, helmet off, hair styled back, pistol locked and loaded. This is how it would appear in the movie adaptation.
But reality is more in tune with comedy. In this case, slapstick.
Once they passed the window’s threshold, Romney utterly botched the landing for both of them. He dragged his feet along the carpet, then went to his knees, sending both paratroopers into a tumble against the far wall. Their parachute caught a gust from outside and tugged them back toward the opening, dragging them along broken glass. They reached the precipice of the window before Rella found the release cord. They both looked over their shoulders to watch it flutter off into the night. She took a moment to regain her breath and to punch Romney in the back a few times.
“I said tuck your legs in, you idiot,” she gasped. “Get off of me.”
“Which buckle is that again?”
Rella undid the offending strap, then continued raining punches on Romney’s back until he rolled away. He stood and brushed broken glass out of his hands. His spine was sore, as was the rest of his body. Other than this, he was in pretty good shape. He found his gun on the floor, perched on the new ledge at the window. He snatched up the gun and held it gingerly in his grip. Then he took a moment to brush more glass out of his palm.
Rella was up, harness detached, weapon at the ready. Her blonde locks were tied back in a tactical bun. She had to help Romney out of his harness. Then, without a word, they moved down the hallway.
The hall led in a rectangle along the full width of the building. On exterior side were the glass windows, interrupted at the corners by support pillars. A single, uniform plaster wall made up the interior side, acting as a sort of core for the rest of the room. Behind this wall was vault-grade titanium, and behind that, the Reymus Collection. It seemed a simple enough design, nice and open. Simple and chic. Very modern. Except that there didn’t seem to be any doors leading inside. Rella slid her hand along the wall as they turned the corner. There were no depressions or features out of place. The surface was a perfectly ordinary wall. She kept searching as they turned around the next corner.
A second shattering of glass from down the hall indicated that a new party had just arrived. They retreated behind the nearest corner and peered down the hall at Lorna Reymus. She rose from her tumble through the window—her leather vest, combat boots, decked-out assault rifle, all unmistakable at any distance. She took a moment to brush glass from her shoulders, looked one way, then the other, and then marched toward them with her rifle still at her side. The terrible grin on her face confirmed there would be no survivors. Romney jumped from around the corner and raised his arms. He had a bad idea.
“Lorna! Baby!”
Lorna’s grin fell as he appeared. Marie came up in a fluid motion and made six new holes in the window behind him. He retreated back behind the corner. Rella’s stricken face had turned to a glare.
“They say I gotta kill you, Rommy. I don’t like it either, sweetheart, but that’s how it is.”
Rella pulled Romney across the wall and around the opposite corner. He tried another appeal to Lorna’s heart.
“What about us, honey? What about our love?”
Rella pulled him down the hall, cursing breathlessly through gritted teeth.
“This is bigger than us, sugar bear,” said Lorna, as she rounded the corner. “This is a chance to make it all right again.”
Rella broke into a run, then yanked hard at Romney’s shirt, bringing both of them around the far corner. The bullets cut through the air and shattered another window. Romney knew better. If Lorna wanted to kill them, she wouldn’t miss. Her heart just wasn’t in it.
“You gotta break a few castles to make a new world order, babe,” she groaned. “I can’t help you anymore. Maybe you could be my thrall, if you make it through all of this.”
Romney frowned. This was the big plan? Then why did they need all that magic? All you needed was power and influence to start a new world order. Wouldn’t their endless stockpiles of money do the trick? He looked down at the floor. And just when he thought he had it all figured out, all the signs pointed to another, more cryptic sign that left him right back where he started. His eyes followed a stray pattern in the carpet. This whole new world order business was for the birds. People like Rella and Agent Salinger were cut out for this sort of thing, not a regular Joe like him.
Rella slapped him on the back. He looked to her with a dour expression.
“Okay, I get it. I never apologized for what happened at the bank. I’m sorry. Do you really have to—”
He stopped mid-sentence and followed her finger to the patch of carpet. There was a point where the random patterns didn’t match up. And now he could see the thin line of a hatch. Rella pulled a knife and started working at the line. The carpet was slowly coming up in a single, long rectangle. Romney dug his fingers under the lip and, together, they pulled open the access hatch. He held it open as Rella dashed down the small staircase into the maintenance tunnel below. Then he slipped in after her, letting the hatch drop into place.
They heard the sound of heavy boots approach from above. Romney took in a deep breath through his nose and held it in his chest. The access hatch creaked under Lorna’s weight. The weight eased, then pressed against the hatch once more. Romney felt a deep sickness rise up, mixing with the sudden pain of asphyxia. He looked to Rella for guidance. Her eyes were clamped shut, her hands clasped to her knife, blade pointed to the hatch.
The heavy combat boot stomped, each thud reverberating through the metal and shaking them to their core.
Romney froze in place. He crouched by the inner maintenance hatch and listened for further signs of movement. The heavy footfalls moved away, fading into the hum of the machinery beyond. Nothing happened for several seconds. He turned to Rella, who was watching the crawl space behind them. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes still wide with fear.
“She’s looking for another w
ay in,” she whispered. “Open the hatch.”
Romney looked for signs of a handle. There was a depiction of an elf and a human with helmets and goggles on. There was the warning, in bold, “Safety Gear Required.” There was a small latch that didn’t seem to do anything when he pulled at it, and a bigger latch toward the top, that also did nothing. He tried both latches at once. This caused the hatch to release and fall on top of him. The crawl space was filled with a familiar blue light.
“Oh my Goddess.”
Rella crawled over him and into the maintenance bay above. Romney discarded the bulky hatch door and then rose into the underside of the Reymus Collection. He had to squint to see anything. The brilliant blue light came from a slender case toward the back of the room, resting on the concrete floor like a sleek phosphorous candle.
The other cases in the room stood like so many obelisks, their glass cases revealing various treasures within. They did little to block out the brilliance of the glowing case. Outlines on the floor, painted in yellow, marked where other cases would go when they retreated into the floor above. The ceiling was an incomprehensible tangle of strange machinery, likely the means of raising the cases up.
Rella was in awe of it all. She stepped carefully over to a long case, shielding her face from the light as she moved. She peered inside at the row of daggers resting on velvet. Her reaction fell from wonder into a deep sickness.
“They’ve gone too far this time,” she groaned.
Romney approached the case and looked over her shoulder. She turned to face him. The tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“These daggers belonged to Ira, the White Wolf. Lord Valdo was their keeper. He was a good elf. He didn’t deserve this.”
Rella tapped at the glass. The case was silent.
“All of these belonged to someone, didn’t they?” said Romney, looking to the other cases. “They were entrusted to good people, to protect them from people like Devon. You were just trying to keep them from abusing magic. That’s the game, isn’t it? And then I came along and ruined everything.”