by Cary Caffrey
"No," Sigrid said. "No, I'm fine."
The truth was, she didn't want to think about it. Not now. She'd been gone so long and missed Suko more than she realized. But Suko's duties were here now, tending to the training of the young ones. Was it selfishness that made her want Suko with her, or did she simply still need her more than she realized? Suko had always protected her when they were younger, and Sigrid couldn't escape the feeling that she missed it. The truth was, she wanted Suko to look after her.
And then Sigrid thought of what Captain Trybuszkiewicz had said: Tomorrow. She would worry about all this tomorrow. After the long voyage, the wonderful reunion, Sigrid found herself succumbing to the many stresses, as well as the pleasures.
She didn't remember falling asleep, but she did so, quickly and soundly, for the first time in many nights, safe again in Suko's arms.
*
Sigrid awoke early, rested and refreshed. She slipped quietly out of bed, worried for a moment she might wake Suko, but there was no need. Suko lay flat on her stomach, arms spread out, her neck arched on the pillow at an odd angle, eyes closed, mouth wide open, all the while snoring loudly.
Sigrid dressed quickly in the quiet of their sitting room, then made her way outside. Circe was slowly setting behind her, the gas giant's looming brilliance giving way to the darkening sky. The sun would not rise for a half an hour yet. This was truly the closest they would come to nighttime on New Alcyone.
"It's always darkest before the dawn." Sigrid chuckled. It was Leta who had pointed that out, and it still made her smile.
In the quiet of early morning Sigrid made her way through the new Academy grounds. The young ones had not yet risen, still tucked in their bunks. Only a scattering of Kimuran workers were up, getting a start on their daily tasks. They didn't pay Sigrid a second glance, tending to their duties. Undisturbed, she made her way up the hill toward the landing platforms.
The Ōmi Maru sat parked beside her own ship, the Morrigan. Their small collection of ships presented themselves as dark, ancient monoliths, towering shadows against the early morning sky. Generators hummed feeding power to the resting ships tended to by the small ground crew. Sigrid gave a nod to the men and women, and climbed the ladder to the flight deck. The bridge was empty, the package she sought still resting where she'd left it. Bernat Wereme's briefcase.
Last night, Suko had asked her what happened on their voyage. Only then did Sigrid realize why she hadn't answered. Something had been bothering her ever since her episode with Corbin Price. She'd read the man, scanned him as best she could. No matter how many times she played the episode over again in her head—played back in perfect clarity thanks to her PCM—the answer always came back the same each time: Corbin Price had told the truth. To all her questions. And yet he had still fooled her.
Or had she simply fooled herself?
A lie isn't a lie if one believes it to be the truth. That was what her mistress had cautioned. If that were true, Sigrid wondered, what then? What could she do? And then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps she was not asking the right questions.
Sigrid opened the case, once again rifling through its contents. She saw the notebooks and papers filled with illegible scribblings. There was no sense to anything he'd written. Sentences were started, never finished, just words that didn't seem to go anywhere. She scanned each page, seeking patterns, anything that might make sense within the white noise of the elderly man's thoughts.
Sigrid held the briefcase upside down and dumped its contents out onto the work table. She sorted everything into piles: discarded receipts in one, food wrappers in another, miscellaneous rubbish in a third. In the last pile she placed the boarding pass for the transport to Vega IV along with a brochure for the Shaded Palm. Sigrid read the tagline, "Care with dignity…"
She placed the empty briefcase down and noticed for the first time how new it seemed. The case had few scrapes; the handle was neither worn nor scuffed. She was convinced this was the first trip this briefcase had seen.
A label on the inside boldly proclaimed, Made in New Shēnzhèn.
Now, that cannot be a coincidence.
Her database confirmed her suspicion. New Shēnzhèn was a city-province of Bellatrix, the so-called Jewel in the Federation's Crown, a factory world at the very edge of Federation space. Bernat Wereme's transport had come from Bellatrix. But Bernat Wereme was not from Bellatrix. And yet this frail man, unable to travel on his own, had journeyed there, bought this briefcase there. The discarded receipts confirmed that. Restaurant receipts, a hotel receipt, all from what looked to be a very bleak and miserable planet. Hardly a vacation destination.
As to what an elderly man suffering from dementia would be doing on such a godforsaken planet Sigrid couldn't theorize. But something did occur to her. Perhaps Mr. Wereme wasn't as harmless as she'd thought. Had she been mistaken about him, as well? Was it possible he actually posed the threat Corbin Price had warned about?
And what, if anything, did he have to do with New Alcyone?
Sigrid frowned. She'd come back here for answers, but now she only had more questions.
"Well," she said out loud, "there's nothing for it, then."
"Nothing for what?" a familiar voice asked behind her.
Sigrid turned, startled. Suko leaned casually against the bulkhead behind her. How she could manage to constantly sneak up on her…
"Stop doing that!"
"Sorry."
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," Suko said, walking toward her. "Now, out with it, Novak—you've been on another planet ever since you got back. I think it's time you told me what happened. What's going on?"
Sigrid sighed. Suko was right. But at least she had an inkling as to what had been troubling her. She told Suko. Everything. About Corbin Price, Bernat Wereme, about Bellatrix. She even told her of the pursuit of the Merchantman; although, she left out the part about the explosions and the shootings and the nearly dying. Such talk would only anger Suko, and Sigrid did not wish to argue. Not now.
Suko listened in silence, never interrupting. At the end, she let out a long breath as she took it all in.
"So?" Sigrid asked, tapping her fingers together; she had no idea what Suko would think of any of this.
"There's only one thing for it. I think it's time you paid a visit to this man, what's-his-name, Mr. Worm."
"Wereme. Bernat Wereme," Sigrid corrected her.
Suko sighed and shook her head, her hand on her forehead. Sigrid frowned—she still had difficulty telling when Suko was teasing her.
"And then—then, my dearest…" Suko stepped closer, close enough that Sigrid could feel her warmth against her. "Then, you're going to Bellatrix."
"I am?"
"You are. But this time I'm going with you."
*
Sigrid brought her findings to Lady Hitomi straight away. It was still early, and Sigrid and Suko had to wait in Hitomi's outer chambers while her attendants woke her. Tea was prepared, as was breakfast, but Sigrid couldn't eat. She was too busy blurting out her discoveries, her theories, and what she hoped to do about it. Her mistress listened, sitting quietly as she spread butter and jam on crunchy toast, sharing the slices, one after another, with Suko, who ate them all heartily.
"And you think this man, Bernat Wereme, is involved?" Hitomi asked.
Sigrid paused before answering. "I don't know—I think he is. Somehow. He may simply be a link to the men the Merchantmen planned to sell us out to. Or he might be exactly as he said—a man on his way to a retirement home. I don't know. I only know we should find out."
"But you destroyed them, dear," Hitomi said mildly, her finger playing over the rim of her teacup. "The Merchantmen are no more. Corbin Price is dead. Why go to Bellatrix?"
"Because, Mistress, because I don't believe Corbin Price was behind the plot on Konoe. I believe he was only a tool. A… What was the word you used, Suko?"
"A middleman," Suko said, absent
ly twirling her long ponytail in a wide circle.
"Yes. A middleman. Corbin Price planned to sell our location to someone—someone interested enough to orchestrate this whole thing. The Merchantmen were on their way to Bellatrix, Mistress. Bernat Wereme was on Bellatrix."
"Sigrid, if you're suggesting what I think—"
"The answer is there. I know it. But, it's more than that…" Sigrid took a deep breath. "Mistress, I think the men who have been after us all this time… I think it's them. I think they're on Bellatrix."
Hitomi sat in silence, her eyes staring forward at nothing. Sigrid waited, wondered. She looked to Suko for help, but Suko only gave a shrug with her eyes.
Finally Hitomi said, "I agree."
Sigrid looked up, surprised. "You—you do?"
"I agree with you about Bellatrix. Until now we've been far too busy fighting the armies of our enemies. Foot soldiers. Pawns. But never those responsible. I think your assessment is correct. I think it's time we consider going after the generals. As to Bernat Wereme, you present an interesting theory. One I think bears looking into."
Sigrid had brought the briefcase with her; she carefully laid its contents on the table before them. As she took out each item, Hitomi took care to examine everything thoroughly, picking up the piles of scribbled notes, flipping through each of the pages, the collection of books.
"You've put a lot of thought into this, Sigrid," Hitomi said; her eyes remained fixed on Bernat's writings. "I would imagine you also have a plan."
Plan? Sigrid wondered. If she means going to Bellatrix, finding the men responsible and killing them…
"Yes, Mistress, I have a plan."
"Good. I will trust you to make the necessary arrangements."
"Yes, Mistress! Of course, Mistress."
"Would you mind terribly leaving this with me, dear?" Hitomi asked, indicating the briefcase and its contents. "I think I should spend some time getting to know this man, Bernat Wereme."
"Of course, Mistress. Whatever you need."
"Thank you, Sigrid. That will be all."
CHAPTER SIX
Kitten Play
September 27, 2348
London, Earth
Her name was Miranda Kane, though nobody ever called her that. Somehow, somewhere—sometime—Miranda had become Kitten. The ridiculous nickname was given to her years ago. Worse, the name had stuck despite her best efforts to quash it. She had learned to live with Kitten. Kit, in a pinch. As long as it wasn't Kitty. The last person to call her Kitty had discovered that this kitten had claws.
Strangely, it was only here on the job where Kitten could become Miranda again, as if she were taking on some alter ego or alternate personality. Though, in a sense that was precisely what she was doing. Miranda often wondered if it was her desire to escape the unfortunate nickname that gave her her edge and made her so good at what she did—and she was very, very good. Miranda was the best, and she knew it.
Miranda lay on the bed, staring at the man slumbering next to her. His name was Connor Lachlan. He was tall, with deep, dark brown skin. She'd never have guessed the trim and athletic physique that existed beneath the ill-fitting business suit. Connor had indeed been a surprise, not nearly so reserved in the bedroom as he had been in the boardroom. He'd actually turned out to be quite masterful.
It pleased her that he only knew her as Miranda, as if her real name were a shared secret for him alone. He could never learn the truth about her. In her line of work that was strictly verboten. The part of her that was Kitten would forever remain private.
Gingerly, Miranda lifted Connor Lachlan's arm off her shoulder and extracted herself from his slumbering embrace, grateful that he was such a sound sleeper. Her superiors would not approve of her actions here, and for good reason. She had made the classic mistake of allowing herself to get close to a target. This operation was no honey trap. The simple truth was, she liked Connor.
Miranda cursed silently. There would be time to debate the moral implications of her actions later.
Picking up her undergarments, green skirt and matching green blouse from the side of the bed, she gathered them in a bundle before making her way out. The view of London from the wide picture window caught her eye, magnificent from seventy-four floors up, high atop the aptly named Lachlan Towers. It was still dark, but that would change soon. The city was quiet, quiet for London, at least. But even seventy stories up, even at this hour, the city hummed. It was alive.
Miranda quickly buttoned her blouse and attached her stockings back to the little snaps on her garter belt. Old fashioned, perhaps, but extremely functional. Especially with the attached clip that held the small palm-sized pistol snug against her thigh.
It was time to go to work, time to get what she'd come for. Connor's locked office was ahead past the kitchen. The security that barred her way was state of the art. But then, so was Miranda. She slipped the lockpick from its hiding place in the hem of her skirt, pausing just long enough to marvel at the slim device. It was an impressive piece of engineering. It should be, she'd designed and programmed it herself.
She thrust it into the lock and let it do its work. Miranda barely had to slow her stride as it allowed her passage into Connor's inner sanctum. She gave her head a shake; the more they tried to complicate security, the more loopholes they left for her to exploit.
Unlike the rest of the penthouse, Connor's office was relatively spartan. A simple desk faced away from the window with four framed prints adorning the wall. The collection was surprisingly tasteful. His choices leaned toward the romantic, heavily favoring French impressionists. Not surprising. Connor Lachlan was a romantic.
His work as a philanthropist was no secret—in fact, his charitable work had brought him great celebrity. It was his most endearing quality, but it would also be his undoing. For Connor didn't have a clue what was going on within his company. He had no idea it had been hijacked out from under him, that all his holdings had been syphoned off to fund the terrorist activities of others. But Miranda had not come here to learn more about Connor. It was the men who were stealing from him that concerned her.
His company was the key. It was the link she'd been searching for.
Miranda touched the screen of the terminal embedded in the great real wooden desk. The computer was hooked directly into the file-servers housed in the factory complex in Swindon. This was the only hardline access outside the factory, and the only way Miranda could get in.
She placed the small data-cube on top of the screen. The cube carried an arsenal of decryption algorithms. The programs made quick work of all the firewalls, boring their way deeper inside, tearing through Connor's databases as they shrugged off every attempt to halt the data-probe, covering her tracks in turn. The worm programs were relentless, and they would not stop until they found what they were looking for.
It took only a minute, and she was in. The files were there, exactly where she'd expected them to be. Transaction records, manufacturing quotas, personnel transfers—massive acquisitions of titanium, thorium, even lesser metals such as copper and aluminum, all being amassed and stockpiled. More than enough to cause a minor tremor in the markets.
And there was more.
The transponders. The stolen CTF naval transponders were here. Using them as bait had been a risk. Her supervisor would never have approved the operation—which was precisely why she hadn't told him. But the risk had paid off.
There were very few people in existence with the kind of authorization needed to gain access to the important devices. It had to be someone high up, someone within the Council fold itself. She'd suspected the connection between Connor's company and the Independents for quite some time. And now she had her proof.
It was unfortunate she had to use Connor in this fashion. It wasn't his fault. The young CEO simply had no idea what was going on with his company. She wondered if it was too late to save him, or to give him some warning at the very least.
Miranda froze at the noise—the o
ffice door sliding open behind her. She didn't bother to turn.
Damn it.
"What are you doing?" Connor demanded.
Not as sound a sleeper as she'd thought.
"How…how did you get in here?" His hands were open at his sides; Miranda thought he looked more hurt than angry. "This door was locked. There's no way you could bypass the security."
An easy lie came to her lips, but there was no point.
"I'm…I'm sorry, Connor."
Connor strode toward her, taking her hands in his. "Sorry? Sorry for what? Are you trying to rob me? Just tell me. Please, what's going on?"
"No, I'm not trying to rob you. I'm just here for information."
Connor's face hardened then; the hurt look turned to one of anger. "So, all this, just—just to spy on me? Who sent you? What do they want?"
"I'm sorry, Connor. It's not even about you. It's your company."
Connor's hands clamped around her arms—but he released her almost immediately, perhaps realizing how brutish the action was. "Then this…seduction, this was all part of it?"
"No, sleeping with you wasn't part of the job."
"But it's still a job."
"No—yes! I mean, yes, this was a job, but I'm not a corporate spy. I like you, Connor, I do. And that's not a lie."
Connor stepped back and leaned against the desk. Miranda saw the conflict in his face, not sure if he should be hurt or disgusted with himself.
"I should call the police."
"I'll be gone by the time they get here." Miranda moved closer, pressed her body against his, and kissed him firmly on the lips, as much to silence him as it was an apology.
"Just—please, tell me what it is you're after."
Miranda opened her mouth to answer, but the chime of the front door interrupted her. They froze, looking at each other. Miranda saw the time on her wristwatch: nearly 4 a.m. "Expecting someone?"
Connor frowned. "No, as a matter of fact."
Miranda reached past him and flipped off the lights. With her hand on his wrist, she guided him out of the office, pushing him gently toward the front door.