The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Flicker

  Again

  Flicker

  "Finished."

  "Daddy," Autumn laughed, "if we weren't so fabulously rich, you could support us by running a shipping business."

  "Thought of that," Aaron absently admitted. "I'm going to N'Ark to speak with Amanda, umm…Miss Bivins. Afterward, I'll head out to the broch and look up those books on archeology."

  "Good," she hooked an elbow through his. "When are we leaving?"

  "You," Aaron told her firmly, "are staying. I'm going, and not for another week or two. I've a number of business things to see to first. Runabout stuff, and then I have to chase down Mister Linley and order up some chemicals."

  She shook her head no. "When you go to N'Ark, I'm coming along."

  "Don't you need to see Julia today?" he asked hopefully.

  Autumn shook her head no again. "She's mostly hanging around with her mom, learning the business. Her mom wants Julia to take over her job when she retires in twenty or thirty years." She grinned. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that nepotism."

  "Yes."

  "Isn't nepotism bad?"

  Aaron gave the question a moment's thought and then fought back a smile.

  "How do you think I became emperor?"

  "Okay," Autumn admitted. "It can be bad, sometimes, although I have to tell you, you're the strangest emperor I ever read about. Guess it's part of why I like you."

  "I thought you liked me because I'm your father."

  She shook her head. "Nope. Being my father is just biology. No law says kids have to like their parents." Her face turned serious as her eyes fastened on his. "I never liked her."

  Confused, Aaron returned his daughter's stare. "Didn't like who?"

  "Mom. We never got along well. I always felt like me and the boys were something she owned. I guess she loved us once, but I think her love stopped when we got older."

  Aaron licked his lips, remembering his own ups and downs with Kit. Autumn's eyes grew moist.

  "I'm sure she loves you," he tried.

  "No," Autumn answered after a moment's reflection. "I don't think she could. Something's missing in her, some piece that allows most people to get close to someone else long term." Her eyes grew moist. "I don't love her. Not anymore. But I love you. You're always busy, but somehow, you find time for me, and when we're together, you're with me, not someplace else."

  Thin tears ran down her cheeks. Looping her arm about his elbow, she clenched tight, using him to support her weight.

  Aaron did support her. If he owed her nothing else, he owed her this. He wished he could open to her. He wished he could tell her how very much he loved her, how he wished to always be there for her, but he could not. He had not been there during the first years of her life. He had not been there to hear her first words, to watch her learn to run and fall. When she came to him three years earlier, he had seen her as a burden, a responsibility. Yes, he did love her, but his love was not the passion a father should have for his child. He liked Autumn as a friend; he spent time with her out of duty.

  He smiled sadly. "Autumn."

  She gazed at him. Her green eyes were large and wet and filled with emotion he could not describe.

  "Yes."

  "If you come with me to N'Ark, I promise to buy you a dress."

  "I'd rather have jeans like the ones you wear," she said, thick voiced. "Only prissy women wear dresses."

  "Miss Bivins sometimes wears dresses."

  "I bet it's only because she has to for parties and stuff. Not because she likes them. I want jeans.

  "Okay," Aaron grinned. "Jeans then."

  Her smile, slow in coming, soon faded. Only a hint of it reached her eyes. "I knew you'd take me with you."

  Aaron swallowed. "I love you with all my heart," he lied.

  For a third time she shook her head, looking sad and wistful and lost and strong all at the same time. "You don't," she said low voiced. "Not really, but you try. She never did. It's why I love you, because you try.

  Chapter 3

  Amanda groaned.

  She lay belly down naked on the padded table while experienced hands pressed into her flesh. Of late, her muscles seemed perpetually sore, and she did not know why. After all, she was not a physical person. The most strenuous thing she normally did was to carry an occasional folder while walking to a nearby appointment.

  Amanda's lips quirked in a faint smile. Truthfully, she seldom carried anything. She had so many lackeys willing to lift any burden she pointed at, they mindlessly jumped to do anything that might, by some unforeseen chance, be an effort to her, a situation she enjoyed. In just a few short years, Amanda had risen from a poor farm girl into someone the heads of several governments courted. While doing so, she became so rich six full-time accountants handled her personal finances, and she no longer knew how many accountants saw to her business accounts. Her managers took care of those details.

  Thank you, Aaron Turner.

  Well, yes, her power originally started because of him, but her many firms now dealt in facets of business not coinciding with Aaron's interests. At last count, she owned two hundred and six firms of various sizes in fifty-two countries. By her efforts and will, she had created millionaires from hundreds of regular people.

  Amanda smiled, thinking back on when being employed by The Bivin's Group, before it even became The Bivin's Group, had not been a winning situation. Many of her employees quit early on, much to their present chagrin. With the incentives Amanda currently provided, even her cleaners made an exorbitant wage. Well, fie on those quitters. They had their chance. It wasn't Amanda's fault they flubbed it.

  She groaned with relief as skilled thumbs worked out a knot in the small of her back.

  "It's the stress," Karen Dandledge, her lover, said. Karen lay on the massage table next to Amanda's. "You need to learn how to relax again. You should take a vacation."

  Feeling warm and secure, Amanda smiled at the older woman. Nobody would ever call Karen beautiful. To the contrary, she was an out of shape academic, over fifty, and it showed. Her body sagged unashamedly in every place time insisted it should. She had rolls in her belly; her breasts were far from pert; the thinning hair over her heavy features was streaked with gray, and her double chin boasted more than a few gray whiskers.

  Her appearance did not matter to Amanda. Karen knew how to love. In fact, she loved Amanda with every fiber of her being, unreservedly and without shame. For her part, Amanda loved the other woman just as fiercely.

  Karen, Amanda reflected, was a woman of substance. A poorly paid professor at the N'Ark University, she possessed one of the finest minds Amanda had ever encountered. She was a woman complete within herself, a woman of character, loyalty, and strength. As an example, despite her intimate association with someone gloriously wealthy, Karen Dandledge owned very little life savings. She lived on her stingy university salary and refused any gifts or money Amanda held out.

  "Hold still." Donna, Amanda's masseuse, buried her thumbs knuckles deep into Amanda's back.

  "Holding," Amanda obediently replied. Donna was another not impressed by money or position. She was one of the best in her profession, knew it, and felt no need to toady up to those who were her supposed social superiors. Amanda appreciated the woman's attitude. Too many "yes" people surrounded her during the business day. If she didn't need or appreciate them inside the office, she certainly did not need them outside it.

  "Karen's right," Donna said in her almost mannishly gruff voice as she re-oiled her hands and placed them on Amanda's upper back once again. "You're too tense. I do all I can, but it's never enough. Every day you're as bad, or worse, than the day before. You need time away from your duties, time to enjoy yourself."

  "But I love what I do," Amanda protested. The massage now felt more sensual than painful. This was Donna's fifth visit to her upper back so its muscles were very loose.

  "Love it or not," Donna insisted, "it's a job, and stress will make you old b
efore your time if you don't take an occasional break. You need a vacation, one lasting longer than a week." Her hands gave one final rub before lifting from Amanda's body. "Roll over."

  Amanda obediently shifted her body until she lay on her back. The air felt delightfully cool against her front, and she wanted to arch teasingly for Karen, but Bob, Karen's masseuse, worked to ease the strained thigh muscles around Karen's once broken and poorly set leg. Discomfort had forced Karen's eyes closed.

  "A woman claiming your firm represented her in court is trying to find you," Donna said as she carefully adjusted Amanda's body to exactly the right position, loose with her arms straight by her sides. "She gave up on reaching you through normal channels and gave her message to me. I put her letter on the table."

  "How many does this one make?" Amanda asked as Donna moved to stand at the head of the massage table.

  "Six this week for me," Donna replied. "Two for Bob. I sent most of them away. Loosen your neck."

  "I've been unavailable," Bob protested. "I went to my cousin's funeral."

  "Admit it," Donna teased. "They like me more than they do you."

  Bob's sudden grin was infectious. "Not hard to admit. I certainly like you."

  "You better more than like me, buster. You married me."

  "You didn't leave me much choice in the matter."

  Donna carefully lifted Amanda's head and manipulated it for a brief moment. "Remain loose," she ordered before giving Amanda's head a sudden twist. A loud cracking sound reverberated through her vertebrae and up into her skull.

  "That was a good one. Once more."

  This time Donna's effort was answered by just a few faint cracklings, fine by Amanda. The first one had not hurt, but it had certainly been disconcerting.

  "Are you complaining?" Donna asked her husband.

  Giving Karen's thigh one last rubdown, Bob shook his head. "Finished, Miss Dandledge. You might as well get dressed. No, Hon, I'm not complaining. It's been pure bliss since you latched onto me."

  "He's such a good man," Donna said to the air. "So well trained."

  "Woof," Bob answered. "Do you want me to roll over and pant?"

  "Later, dear. I have to crack Miss Bivin's back first. So Amanda, darling, I'll make you a deal. If you tell me what stock you prefer right now, I'll tell you where some of my favorite vacation spots are."

  Without being asked, Amanda rolled onto her side and threw one arm behind her back. She had been through this too many times before. Knowing the state of disrepair her body had reached in only thirty-nine years was a sad thing.

  "There are plans in motion to open a number of plants making something called a battery," Amanda said as her body was carefully adjusted. "You'll get a good return if you invest in PowerTrue. Forget about the vacation, though. My son isn't even three."

  "It's settled," Karen said airily. "Semester ends in another week so I'll be at loose ends until the fall. If you're not back by then, I'll hire daycare. Take your vacation. Mister Chase Bivins can stay with me."

  "But I don't know I can get away."

  "Why not," Karen demanded. "You took care of The Balandice problem more than a year ago, and the others are all well in hand."

  "I'll think about it," Amanda promised, although she had already dismissed the idea. The Bivin's Group could not afford to have her leave its helm unattended for several months. To her way of thinking, only one person in her entire organization was truly indispensable, and that person was her.

  * * *

  Poing Thunk Thud Poing Thunk

  Panting, Armand Crowley bent over the pain in his stomach. His arm hung heavy at his side as he tightened his grip on the racquet handle. Tauntingly, the small blue racquetball rolled by, daring him to go after it one more time.

  "Age catching up to you, Mister Crowley?" Faith asked mockingly. "I remember a time when you could run circles around me on a court."

  "I remember a time when you didn't know which end of a racquet to hang onto," he panted. "Age ain't got nothing to do with it, don't ya know. Just you wait, woman. As soon as I catch my breath, I'll have my way with you."

  Her guffaw echoed off the court's walls. "Empty promises. Your problem is you spend too much time behind a desk and not enough in the field. Man up, sir, and prepare to do battle. The score stands at thirteen to six."

  Armand slowly straightened, wishing he had not taken a water break just a few minutes earlier. The cold water combined with his exhausted body to create a ferocious bellyache. If he were dedicated enough, he could probably continue manfully on with the game for a few more points. He would lose, naturally, no different from the norm. These days, he always lost. He was outclassed and not afraid to admit it. He wasn't ashamed, either. A man liked to be proud of his wife. Armand might possess superior size and brawn, but Faith was no slouch when it came to speed, agility, and endurance.

  "The score," he said, "ends at thirteen-six, an', Faith, there's more places I can have my way with you than on the court."

  "Purr," she said playfully. "Why don't you come closer? I have my claws out."

  Armand winced. Faith really did have claws. Her red fingernails were artificially long, tough, and sharpened along their edges. Though a major in IFBIS, the Isabellan Feds, Faith Crowley had not relaxed her discipline. A person never knew, she said, when she might need an edge. The fact neither of them had risen from their desks to do more than visit the restroom for the last three years did not mean she wasn't ready to return to the field at a moment's notice.

  She missed the work, the adrenaline, Armand knew. Truth be told, he missed some of it himself. Mind you, there were parts he was quite happy to have put aside. More than five years had passed since somebody last punched his nose. The not having sharp pointy objects stuck through his skin was okay, too. Still and all, he did miss the look on people's faces when it finally dawned on them they were not quite so intelligent or sly as they believed. Sometimes it seemed every evil, bad, and stupid person out there thought they were the supreme criminal mastermind of all time. In truth, very few ever came up with something IFBIS had not seen dozens of times before.

  Those days were done. Faith was a major, a rank too high for her to ever again work in the field, and he, five years her senior at forty-five, morphed into a paper pushing analyst for the Isabellan Intelligence Agency, otherwise known as the IIA.

  "Too tired to tussle," he told her, wincing back from her outstretched claws. "I'm an old man. I just plumb done run out of energy." He headed for the court door. "You coming?"

  Faith tossed her head, flinging long hair over her left shoulder. Armand noted she did not exactly look fresh herself. Her hair hung damp, and sweat dripped down her face. They stood several feet apart, but even so, love her as he did, he had to admit his darling wife seemed just a tad bit whiff.

  Cocking her head, Faith studied him with eyes suddenly gone soft.

  "I don't think so, dear one. I'm not burned out yet. I'll run through a few drills while you take your leisure."

  "It's unfair to practice."

  "I agree. Now run along."

  He might be beaten and run ignominiously from the field of battle, but Armand didn't mind in the least. Faith gave him a kiss just before he exited the court. A kiss from his wife, Armand reflected, made any beating worthwhile.

  "Is the court free?" a soft voice asked.

  The woman standing in front of him owned longish brown hair and doe-like sultry brown eyes. She appeared perky and energetic and probably on the sunny side of thirty. If he wasn't such a fair minded sort of man, Armand would have disliked her on sight. She looked young, and he felt very old.

  Then again, he noticed with malicious delight, she was dressed to play and had a racquet gripped in her right hand.

  With a deliberate wink, he released his most winning smile. "Lovely gal, the lady on the court isn't likely to leave anytime soon. However, she'll take you on for a game or two if I ask nicely, which I will for the price of a smile."

&nbs
p; The young woman eyed him dubiously. "Maybe or maybe you're just looking for an excuse to flirt?"

  "Am I flirting?"

  "Terribly so," she answered.

  "I suppose I am," Armand admitted, "though you're the first to bring me up on it in quite a while. Well, tell you what, the woman is my one and only wife. Why don't I tell her you want to play a game or two, and then you can both have a good time complaining about me?"

  The brown-haired woman idly tapped her racquet against her leg. "Does she mind your flirting?"

  "Nope. She hopes it pays off, and I hook myself up with a second wife. Been married for close to thirteen years now, and my refusing to find another woman irks her something terrible. She's looked for an excuse to just plain murder me for the last several years because of it. You should see the life insurance she's piled up on my head. I'm treading careful, that I am."

  "Sounds like a formidable person."

  "Very formidable," Armand confessed. "Like a she bear with cubs. She's the only woman I've met who gets jealous over a man. I tried running away from her, but the woman's too fast. She just wears me out and drags me back."

  "You do realize you're somewhat contradictory?

  Armand grinned. "Comes from being so worn out. Hard to keep all my facts straight."

  "Well then, I better get in there. If I tire her out, maybe you can make your escape tonight." Her low voice filled with wry amusement.

  Armand felt just the littlest bit amused himself. Damn Faith Crowley and damn her again. Maybe this once he could get back at her.

  "Would you do that for me?" he asked.

  "Of course," she answered. "It's a woman's job to protect helpless men."

  Armand's smile grew larger as he reached for the handle on the court's door. "Enjoy."

  * * *

  Having nothing better to do, Armand spent a few minutes walking around the indoor track while half a dozen joggers lapped him time and again. The look of sly amusement several people gave him as they effortlessly breezed past brought a flush to his cheeks. He considered speeding up his own pace to show the young sprats what a real workout looked like, but better sense took hold. His legs were fatigued from three hours of racquetball. He doubted he could maintain a light jog for more than a third of a mile. Hell, he was a middle-aged desk jockey whose best years were behind him. Besides, even in his youth, he had never been much of a runner. His body packed on muscle without a thought, but running made him want to lie down and cry mercy.