Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  - - -

  “You sonofabitch,” Guishaun said, staring at Jordan from across the great dining hall. One of the Palace servants nearly dropped her tray. Though he ate alone, Jordan’s meal had all the trappings of a state dinner.

  “You are all dismissed,” Jordan said with a wave. He waited until the room cleared before addressing Guishaun. “That is quite a way to greet your uncle, Nephew. My mother was your grandmother after all. Hmmm. Well, that must make you a grand-sonofabitch.”

  “Why are you doing this to Varian?” Guishaun asked, halving the distance between himself and Jordan. Jordan dropped his napkin over his plate but remained in his chair.

  “I thought it was your position that your father had a superior claim to the throne to mine. With your father gone...”

  “You know he can’t do this. He now lives with constant anxiety. Isn’t it enough that you invade his environment and change everything? You make him wear new clothes that are uncomfortable and strange to him. He’s in constant fear that he’ll be dragged out to some meeting or social function.”

  “What can we do? He refuses the medication we offer him.”

  “Piss on your medication. It only gives him a different feeling of anxiety. If it allows him to really feel anything at all.”

  “We are doing what we can. If he is to be grandee...”

  “Let him renounce the throne.”

  “So you can have it?” Jordan asked with a laugh. “What a compassionate brother you are. ‘Do not worry, Brother Dear. I know that being the lord grandee of Legan, with all that wealth and power, is a heavy burden. Let me take the crown for you. That way you can rot in your little apartments by yourself for the rest of your life, all without anyone noticing.’”

  “And if I also renounce my claim?” Guishaun asked, his face expressionless.

  Jordan’s smile vanished. “Did you ever dream of being grandee, Nephew?”

  “I never knew it was a possibility until I was out of my teens.”

  “And in the ensuing years?”

  “Not as much as you did.”

  Jordan smiled once again. “The papers will be to you by morning.”

  “So soon,” Guishaun remarked. “Did you anticipate this as well?”

  “I will assemble the necessary witnesses,” Jordan said, ignoring the question. “You have but to name the time and place for signing.”

  “And if we sign, my brother will be left in peace?”

  “You both will be left in peace,” Jordan promised.

  Guishaun sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Tomorrow morning then.”

  - - -

  When Derrick woke, he was bound to a chair, surrounded by monitors and scanning devices. Numerous small tubes also snaked their way and connected to various points on his body.

  “Ah, you are awake,” Yeskin said, having donned a long white wrinkled jacket that, like the otherwise once sterile room, had not been cleaned in a while. In his hand he carried a small viewer. “Now, I have a few questions for you.”

  Derrick shook his head.

  “We do this for every subject,” Yeskin assured him. “Mainly for cross-classi-fi-cation refer-encing.” Yeskin turned and spoke to a hidden microphone. “The subject’s general statistics are already entered. Subject’s name is—?” Yeskin returned his gaze to Derrick.

  “Derrick Meres.” Derrick yelped as a shock ran through his body.

  “I guess I must explain a few things,” Yeskin said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Lie to me, you will be shocked. Refuse to answer, you will be shocked. Struggle in your chair, you will be injected with para-lyzers. And they are specific. Same with your psychic abilities. My father mapped brain areas that few knew existed. I can block your psychic abilities with great precision. This is so I can continue my work even if certain parts of your brain are shut down.”

  “What makes you think I have any psychic ability?” Derrick asked.

  “Alfren would not have brought you here otherwise.” Yeskin nodded at Derrick’s dismay. “His limited psychic ability would make him a poor subject, but he is useful in other ways. Now, tell me your name.”

  “Derrick, I think.”

  “You think? What is your last name?”

  “I really do not know,” Derrick replied, anticipating a shock that did not come. Yeskin lifted an eyebrow and lumbered closer.

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “I have lost my memory.”

  Yeskin frowned. “Head injury?” he asked, feeling Derrick’s skull for irregularities. “Hmmm. Maybe I should shave your head.”

  “No injuries that I know of,” Derrick said quickly. “Someone told me that a mental bar had been placed over me.”

  “A mental bar?” Yeskin stopped his clinical examination. “Mental Bar. Men-tal-Bar. Interesting.” Still muttering to himself, Yeskin left the room.

  “Yeskin,” Derrick called, fighting against his restraints. “Wait! Where are you going?” True to Yeskin’s word, the paralyzers neutralized Derrick’s offending muscles. This in turn triggered panic, as Derrick rapidly lost control of all his muscles. The machine regulating his intravenous solutions compensated against his rising heart rate and respiration however, though it resulted in a loss of consciousness. Derrick woke later to a light shining in his face.

  “So, you had to test my monitors while I was gone, heh?” Yeskin asked, shaking his head once more. “Most subjects have to learn the hard way, I guess.”

  “What?” Derrick asked groggily.

  “You give me a puzzle,” Yeskin went on. “I have never seen a mental-bar before, and yours seems very complicated. I don’t know if I can get rid of it.”

  “It is loaded with a trigger that will kill me if you try.”

  “My father’s notes say that this is not uncommon.”

  “Ultimately the bar should disintegrate,” Derrick added.

  “Yes,” Yeskin agreed. “But that process could kill you as well. Or maybe just losing the mental-bar will kill you. What if the person who placed it never really wanted you to get your memory back?”

  Derrick went still. He had not considered this.

  “I may have to risk it,” Yeskin concluded, wiping his hands on his coat.

  “No, wait!”

  “Don’t worry,” Yeskin soothed, petting him like a scared rabbit. “I have to do more tests first. Besides, for sci-en-ti-fic breakthroughs,” Yeskin seemed to enjoy his precise pronunciation of the word, “it is worth taking a few chances. Everyone knows that.”

  - - -

  Jordan entered what had once been the Privy Council Chamber, flanked by the Prelate of Legan, the Lord Chief Justice, and Parliament’s First Speaker. The formalities were brief.

  “Lords Varian and Guishaun, have you both read and understood the documents you are about to sign?” Jordan asked.

  “Yes,” Guishaun answered.

  Varian nodded, looking at the decorative stars on the room’s domed ceiling.

  “And you both act of your own free will, without threat or reservation, and recognize that your renunciation of your claim to the throne of Legan is permanent and unconditional?”

  “Yes,” Guishaun answered.

  Varian said nothing and had to be prompted by his brother. “Y-y-yes,” Varian managed.

  “Very well,” Jordan said, gesturing to the table where the two documents lay.

  Guishaun rose from his chair and felt insides pull down on him. He had to steady himself before taking a step. Dorian had convinced him that this was for the best, but it occurred to him that giving in to his uncle completely might be unnecessary. Did he have another way out? “Wait,” said Guishaun, breathing in hope through a fog of nausea. “Varian should sign first.”

  “You are both signing,” Jordan said. “Who cares who is first?”

  “My signing is conditional on my brother signing,” Guishaun said.

  “But he will sign,” Jordan replied, “right, Varian?” Varian nodded sadly. “There you g
o, Guishaun,” Jordan said. “Do you not trust your brother’s word?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Guishaun said, stepping back. “The moment I sign that paper, my renunciation becomes unconditional. I want Varian’s document signed and witnessed before mine. He is older, and his claim is superior to mine.”

  “It would be according to protocol, Lord Jordan,” the First Speaker remarked.

  “And a prudent demand for a man in his position,” the Prelate added.

  “Fine,” Jordan said grudgingly, wishing he had more influence over his required witnesses. “Varian, step forward.”

  At his brother’s nod, Varian stood and shuffled to the table.

  “It is the document on the right,” Jordan offered helpfully as Varian slowly took the pen.

  Varian looked at the parchment before him. His lips began to move.

  “It is the same as you read before, Varian,” said Jordan. “There is no need to re-read it.”

  “Please, Lord Jordan,” the Prelate said. “This decision would surely weigh heavily on anyone. Let him take his time.”

  Jordan let out a short huff but remained silent. When Varian finally signed, the three dignitaries solemnly counter-signed in turn.

  “Now, Nephew,” Jordan said, looking at Guishaun as if he were an afterthought.

  Guishaun stepped forward and again felt himself about to heave. Was he missing something? He too took a moment to look at the document, pen in hand, not so much reading as trying to figure out what it was that was trying to surface in his mind. “Can this be revocable by my brother?” Guishaun asked, his pen hovering over the paper.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “The documents are plain,” said Jordan. “This is irrevocable and permanent.”

  “But our father used to sign everything for us,” Guishaun said. “Even when we were older, my brother never signed anything on his own.”

  “Why would he?” Jordan asked. “His every need was fulfilled, and will continue to be, once this is over.”

  “Can my brother legally sign this document?” Guishaun asked, looking at the Chief Justice. The man straightened and shot a glance at Jordan.

  “Yes,” the Chief Justice replied. “He can sign it.”

  “And it would be legally binding?” Guishaun pressed.

  “Yes,” the man repeated. “So long as Lord Varian has the capacity to sign.”

  “And if he doesn’t have the ‘capacity’?” Guishaun asked.

  “He signed it,” Jordan hissed. “He has the capacity.”

  Guishaun turned slowly toward Jordan. “If he were later deemed to have been incompetent,” Guishaun said, “what would happen, my Lord Chief Justice?”

  “His renunciation would be deemed voidable,” the man replied.

  “But if your brother is incompetent, my Lord,” the First Speaker said, “I doubt he would be able to—”

  “So if he is only deemed temporarily incompetent, over a time-frame that covers the signing of this document and ending at some opportune point in the future, he could...?”

  “He could indeed become grandee,” the Prelate finished.

  “I will not sign, Uncle,” Guishaun said evenly.

  Jordan looked at his nephew stiffly, moving only to breathe. “Very well,” he said. “Having learned of this point of legality, perhaps Varian’s competence should be resolved immediately, so the document’s validity can be assured, before anyone proceeds under false assumptions.”

  “Yes,” Guishaun replied. “Pity this was not considered before. Finality on this issue might even require an Act of Parliament.”

  “You think so, do you?” Jordan seethed. Both knew that such an act would be difficult to pass without publicly addressing the underlying succession issue.

  “Well, we do want certainty,” Guishaun replied. “But take heart, Uncle. Having my brother sign the document again may be unnecessary.”

  “And letting your brother continue to live as befits the heir to the throne of Legan may give him added perspective on what it would mean to be grandee,” Jordan said smoothly.

  Guishaun turned sharply toward his uncle.

  Yes, Jordan thought behind a pleasant smile, you have won this round, Nephew. But your brother will pay the price for it.

  - - -

  XVII

  The woman dancing on the stage with comically over-enhanced breasts had fitted each with small suspensor-field generators. Hidden beneath the bulk of her flesh, they gave her breasts the illusion of independent animation. They could dance to the music while she stood still, either together or separately. If one imagined the exposed orbs to be eyes, they could even look about the room in different directions and appear to go cross-eyed. The crowd loved it.

  But Anios Tenatte’s thoughts were elsewhere. The NDB-led DuCideon Brotherhood was moving in on the Consortium’s business operations where theirs overlapped. They even undercut their prices, despite Vaid Ketrick’s attacks on their production and manufacturing facilities. This needed to be redressed, along with the murder of Tenatte’s emissary to Crucidel.

  Not that the man mattered. Tenatte had expected the message to be the death of the messenger. But honor was honor. And Lilth and Jordan’s proposal to open all underground operations to competitive bidding was unacceptable. Did they want a Hidden War between the Consortium and the Brotherhood? Perhaps they thought that since the NDB now controlled Brotherhood on Legan, Tenatte would refrain from violence. It was a worthy consideration, he admitted, but one never revealed weakness to an enemy unless it was to lure him into a trap. If the Consortium blinked before the NDB without an immediate victory to show for it, its credibility would take years to reestablish, meaning years of lost profits.

  With a side glance, Tenatte saw Curin Morays leave his table with several girls in tow, having made his after-dinner dessert selections. That one was another problem. Uncouth and impatient, he was boorish beyond human toleration, quite a condemnation coming from one of Tenatte’s experience. Fast drugs and recreational women would only preoccupy Curin for so long. He would have to let the Morays oaf make his political move on his uncle Jordan soon.

  The club’s manager came up beside Tenatte. As a show of respect to the owner, his path of approach had kept him within Tenatte’s peripheral vision the entire time. “Ketrick is here,” the man said.

  “Is he alone?” Tenatte asked, his voice grinding.

  “Yes. We’re holding him downstairs.”

  “Send him up,” Tenatte breathed. Ketrick knew better than to come to the club. That meant either something serious had happened, or was about to happen.

  As Vaid Ketrick reached the upper level, a new dancer floated down to the stage riding what appeared to be a cloud. Suspensor fields and the latest in holographic imaging may have brought new artistry to these shows, but judging by the woman’s figure beneath the ancient warrior-goddess garb, the basic elements of a successful performance were the same. As if on cue, the stern battle goddess tore off her breastplate and swung her bludgeons to battle readiness.

  “So, are all the funeral directors on strike, Vaid?” Tenatte asked.

  Ketrick smiled, but knew that Tenatte was annoyed. His coming here risked linking his attacks on the NDB to Tenatte. The problem was that the link had already been made. “We took one of the NDB Brothers captive on the last raid,” said Ketrick. “They know about us. They are also planning—”

  A projectile crashed through the building’s outer wall, exploding in mid-air. Seated on the other side of the stage, and protected by the suspensor fields that were part of the acts, Tenatte and Ketrick were among the few survivors in the main room. Bodies and debris lay everywhere, but after activating his personal shield, surveying the damage, and satisfying himself that the attack was over, Tenatte grabbed Ketrick. “You led them here!” he accused.

  “No!” Ketrick said, his senses dulled from the concussive blow. “Everyone knows this is your place. It is what I came to say. The NDB are striking ba
ck.”

  “What the hell happened?” Curin demanded, running out through a hallway from a back room. He was naked, save for a robe hastily tied around his waist.

  “You have Curin Morays here?” Ketrick asked as soldier-enforcers poured into the room, their weapons drawn and shields activated.

  “Search the surrounding area,” Tenatte ordered. “The bomb came from a launcher outside.” As the men left to obey, Tenatte turned back to Ketrick. “I want you to target where they live: churches, temples, schools, hospitals.” Stepping forward, he fixed his mechanical eyes on the former DuCideon grandmaster. “You will also target DuCideon assets.” Ketrick was about to object but Tenatte stopped him with a snarl. “Hit them everywhere.”

  - - -

  Couri Valmont knew that he was not dead.

  Or at least he strongly believed so, despite the absolute nothingness around him. The utter silence of darkness, where there was only the Void: That was what Hell was supposedly like. Fire and brimstone were for those who might be purified and saved. The Void was where you were cast to dissolve from any form of coherent sentience into fragmented wisps of thought.

  As he had done several times already, Valmont attempted to use his psychic ability to sense something around him, even his own body. But there was nothing.

  Of course, he had heard of sensory deprivation as torture. In time, he would no doubt go insane. But he was yet to believe the sounds his mind tried to make him think he heard, or the light-shadows that danced in the dark. The occasional sense of his own body was more difficult, but he accepted this as a trick from a brain craving outside stimulation as well. He was willing to accept a lot of things. That way they would not bother him while he waited out his father.

  He did not believe he was dead. Sooner or later, his father would come for him. He only hoped it happened before the creeping sense of utter loneliness became a terror that made him desperately grateful for it.

  - - -

  Henrald Steuben recognized the woman answering the door. He had seen her when he staked out Taniell Kamarin’s apartment before.

  “Yes?” she said, peering through an opening only large enough for her face to show. She would have no idea who he was, but Steuben was not the kind of stranger one would feel comfortable with suddenly appearing at your home.