House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  Give them what they expect, Steuben thought, handing a local law-enforcement identification card to the woman walking next to him, and they will not question why.

  "For the doorman," Steuben said.

  The woman nodded.

  She was not a homely woman, the Colonel decided, after another sideways glance at his partner. It was her hardness that detracted from her features, a hardness born from abandoning Holy Orders and being forced to live as a renegade. As a rogue initiate, selling her psychic talents to anyone who would pay, the woman had learned to be careful. The Holy Miran Church did not like its students of the Deeper Training running loose. It was even known to occasionally "burn" their fallen, using a technique that stripped away a person’s psychic ability.

  Steuben did not know the circumstances under which the woman had left her religious order. He knew her cover story, of course, but in telling it, she had made no effort to convince him. And surely not all beautiful young women fleeing a nunnery did so for the love of an older man. But this did not matter.

  Results were what mattered, and this woman was one of the best at what she did. She had a very subtle touch, one that made her work difficult to detect. She might not extract all the information available from their target’s mind, but she would get most of it. And only another equally skilled expert would be able to tell that something had been done.

  "Good evening,” said a voice over a ceiling speaker as Steuben and the woman reached the front entry of the building where their target lived. “What can I do for you?"

  "I’m Officer Bronal and this is Officer Scherson," Steuben said, holding up his badge for the viewscreen. The woman did the same. "We’re here to talk to a witness in a criminal matter."

  The guard did not respond right away. Steuben was about to say something further when he sensed a quick flash of psychic power.

  "Very well, Officers," the man said as the door opened.

  Steuben looked at his companion before walking in. Clearly she had not felt like waiting. Maybe I should have tried this earlier, Steuben thought as they continued through the building.

  No, he decided as they turned a corner into another hallway. Using hostages against the rebels was futile. And as good as his rogue initiate was, if their psychic tampering were to be kept secret, they would have only one shot. Even one memory-suppressed mental scan could make a person suspicious. That could lead to questions, and possibly the involvement of Church authorities. If that happened, their ongoing use of the target would be over.

  Well, we will see what the old lady can tell us now, Steuben told himself, thinking of her as just another asset in his growing game. At least she will not have been wasted.

  Glancing down the corridor behind them, Steuben pressed the apartment’s door buzzer.

  "Who's there?" a woman called from behind the door.

  "My name is Nald Grenner, Madam Depré."

  "Who? What do you want this time of night?"

  "Nald Grenner," Steuben repeated. "I must talk to you. It’s a talk that’s long overdue."

  "I don't know who you are and don't want to talk. I am an old woman and need my rest."

  "But how can you rest with your son in danger?" The woman did not reply. "Nolan—"

  The door opened part way. "Nolan is dead," the woman said evenly, clamping the sides of her nightgown with her right hand. Her left hand remained hidden behind the door.

  "Unless you want Lenalt to join him, along with your brother, and his children and grandchildren, I suggest you listen carefully. After all, harboring a traitor is a serious crime."

  The woman's face hardened as Steuben heard a small heavy object scrape across the other side of the door. The Colonel locked his steel-gray eyes onto hers.

  "Who are you?" the woman repeated, her anger disintegrating into apprehension.

  "Grenner," Steuben lied. "Agent Grenner, from HOPIS."

  "Nolan is dead," she sighed. "What do you want from me?"

  "Nolan is dead, but Lenalt is not. And I want a great deal." The Colonel pushed open the door, forcing the woman to step back. "May I come in?" he asked cordially, entering the room.

  Already agitated, the old woman started when Steuben’s companion stepped in from behind him. The rogue initiate had dropped all pretense of being from the government.

  "Oh, this is Nyla," Steuben continued, closing the woman’s front door and locking it, "formerly Sister Nyla of...well, I forget which Holy Order." The Colonel’s eyes narrowed as Nyla gave him an affirming nod. The former sister did not anticipate a problem with the woman. "The point is, Mrs. Depré," he said with a smile, "Nyla has forgotten her Holy Order as well."

  ---

  A solitary Seffan Possór stood in his darkened audience chamber, looking out through its transparent dome to the stars overhead. It was a clear night, with a peaceful evening sky and the tranquility of open space taunting him. Catching his reflection in the plasteel, he turned away.

  I am growing old, he thought, having seen new streaks of gray in his hair. It was inevitable, he admitted, but surely the stress of his responsibilities had aged him faster. And who would not be so affected? Everyday more people called on him to do this, or to give them that.

  Selfish bastards. Seffan paced beneath the dome. They expect me to house them, feed them, and secure for them a cornucopia of needs that they should be securing for themselves, all without any thought of how I am to accomplish it, not caring if I must to steal to do it.

  Stopping, he looked down over the darkness below him.

  And when I do give them what they want, Seffan fumed, mindful of what some independent news agencies said about him, they call me corrupt.

  Corrupt!

  Those who demand that others provide them with a lifestyle that is wholly unearned. Those who would enslave their neighbors so that they no longer need to labor to live. Those who have the ethics of looters. Those who pushed me to sacrifice my House to the Consortium to make it all work, AND FOR THEIR SAKE...

  No one knew better than he how it began. Wanting to be loved for his caring nature, but not hypocritical enough to force others to pay for his own charity, he had signed the Consortium contracts. That the first agreements were confined to a narrow band of activities mattered little. The band grew, with his government becoming increasingly dependent on illegal revenues.

  Politically unable to limit government outlays, and morally unwilling to burden the innocent workers and producers of society, he sank deeper. In time, the Consortium even dictated contract terms. That was when he began to despise the very people he had tried to help—those who had brought him to fear discovery by the Imperials on the one hand, while facing both the Consortium’s wrath and resulting economic upheaval on the other.

  Seffan turned and gazed at the great chair standing alone on its platform above. Although the room was illuminated only by the stars, by a trick of the dome's architects, the throne appeared to be surrounded by small, stilled fireflies.

  They wanted the impossible. His hatred festered. They wanted something out of nothing, wealth from unproductiveness, life from sustained inactivity. Yet I gave it to them, without being reduced to feeding on the labors of my good citizens. But they only wanted more.

  Seffan ascended the steps to his chair, passing a smaller one on a platform several steps below his. Rightfully, his visitor should be made to stand, but such were the times.

  All I ever did was protect them. If I am damned for it, so be it, but not by those who have no right to condemn me. I will not have the morality of my decisions judged by social cannibals.

  "Bring him in," Seffan ordered as he sat. A servant acknowledged the order instantly.

  Bishop Chais Wyren climbed the steps leading to Seffan's presence with hidden indignation. He knew why Seffan was meeting him in a private audience chamber, rather than a conference room. The Count-Grandee wanted it known that all the favors to grant were his, including the public recognition that the NDB Church so much desired.

/>   But he did not summon me here to be magnanimous, Wyren thought, angry that the audience had been so delayed, and was now conditioned on secrecy. He wants something too.

  "Good evening, Your Imperial Lordship," Wyren began, bowing to the enthroned Seffan above him. Seffan's shimmering image looked as if the lord of Legan sat amongst the stars.

  "Fair evening to you, Mister Wyren," Seffan replied, waving his hand at the empty chair next to the man. "Do you care to sit?"

  Ignoring Seffan's slight, the NDB bishop thanked his host and took the proffered seat.

  "We understand that you have long sought this audience," Seffan began, employing the royal personal pronoun. "You now have our attention."

  Wyren had expected to be the first to state his position, and was quick to do so. "Given the upcoming trial, and the likely increase of Imperial surveillance of House Possór’s activities, my Church is concerned over the Consortium’s continued presence within your realm, Sire."

  "How surprising, given your church's hand in bringing them here. Still, your concern is touching. Of course, given the Imperial monitoring of our planet, our government looks for ways to minimize the risk of any association with the Consortium. Have you any suggestions?"

  "It would be understandable, Sire, if a large organization like the Consortium occupied a noticeable place in Legan’s economy," Wyren offered. "Might the DuCideon Brotherhood be used to mitigate any economic disruption from the Consortium’s departure from the planet?"

  "Is it true then that your church has garnered more favorable terms from the DuCideons?"

  "I am unsure what you mean, Sire."

  "The NDB Church is rumored to have switched alliances," Seffan said, smiling indulgently. "It is also rumored to have all but taken-over the DuCideon Brotherhood. Your church now has an economic stake in the DuCideon’s activities."

  "We have faithful within the DuCideon Brotherhood, Sire," the NDB bishop responded, "and the Church does benefit from their tithes. But that is not the reason to favor the DuCideons over the Consortium, not that they should even be compared with Consortium hoodlums."

  Seffan laughed. "And here We thought you NDB's indulged in only simple humor. While the individual DuCideon members enjoy a higher social standing than those of the Consortium, they share the same business. They are but rival gangs."

  "You have spoken with Lord Ketrick, Sire?" Wyren was content to let Vaid Ketrick live as one of the hundreds of regional lords owing fealty to House Possór. Once his term as Legan’s DuCideon grandmaster ended, however, so would his time with the DuCideons.

  "And others. Do We assume that your petition to expel the Consortium also includes a desire that our government interfere with the rights of our vassals to police their own domains?"

  "They are oppressing our faithful, Sire!" Wyren cried.

  "Your church is trying to infiltrate and subdue their regional governments," Seffan snapped. "They have the right to protect themselves from organized seditionists."

  "Sire! The True Church has never—!"

  "Just as I have the right to stamp out rebels wherever I may find them." Seffan's last words echoed off the plasteel dome with a resonance aided by the Mental Disciplines.

  Wyren cursed himself for not watching for the warning signs of Seffan's anger. As a precaution, he intensified his mental shields.

  "So what is the extent of your Church's involvement with the rebels, Bishop Wyren?"

  "Ketrick must have told you that, Sire," Wyren whispered, convinced that a denial of the accusation would only cause more trouble. Where falsehood was not an option, there was always evasion. "You see, my Lord, we have our subversives too."

  "My heart drains for you," Seffan replied dryly. "Tell me though, why I should not evict the NDB Church and confiscate its holdings?" Seffan had put a cold finality in his tone, prompting Wyren to gasp before being strengthened by his self-righteousness.

  "We have never viewed those we support as rebels, Sire," Wyren began, controlling his temper. "They are only people of conscience who believe in the right of religious freedom."

  "You mean eco-political self-interest," Seffan corrected impatiently.

  The NDB bishop almost made another defensive response when something in Seffan's manner caught him. Seffan is waiting for me. He wants me to hurry up and make him an offer.

  "Of course, Sire," Wyren proceeded warily, "to help preserve the Emperor's Peace," a small icy glint came to Seffan's eye, "and abide by your command, we can curtail the activities of these ‘rebels,’ as some call them. At least where our faithful have influence."

  "I want a cessation of all rebel activities," Seffan said, glaring down at the man. "Together with reparations for prior rebel attacks, your church's full cooperation in expelling the Consortium, complete indemnification for any Consortium reprisals, and five percent above what our current contracts with the Consortium give us."

  Wyren looked up at Seffan, studying him quickly yet intently. He will not alter his terms, Wyren concluded, even with the threat of Imperial military occupation, should his forces fail to keep the peace. Sighing, the NDB bishop rose from his chair.

  "It is agreed, Sire," Wyren replied. There was little choice.

  Seffan nodded a silent dismissal before spinning in his throne to look at the night sky.

  Wyren bowed to Seffan’s back before descending the chamber steps.

  Inwardly, the NDB bishop was satisfied. Whatever the shortcomings of their deal, it was unlikely that Seffan would wear Legan's crown long enough for it to matter. Wyren had only really wanted to end the persecution of New Dawn Believers by Seffan's vassals. The rest could be renegotiated with Seffan's successor.

  ---

  VI

  Taniell Kamarin took the small cartridge the man handed her, feeling the warmth of his fingers against hers in the cold air.

  "You must go," said Nolan Depré, his labored breath visible in the unheated apartment. "They know who and where I am. But they don't know about you."

  Taniell kept her ground, brushing away her tears. "We could run...escape—"

  "We will," he assured her, taking her into his arms. Her hands clasped tightly around him, Taniell could feel his body under his heavy sweater as she inhaled the scent from his clothes. She would have surrendered everything to make him hers forever.

  "We will," he repeated, "only not together." Kissing her again, he pushed her back and fastened her dark coat closed. "Go, my love."

  Taniell rushed to leave while she still had the strength to force herself, only to look back before entering the doorway. He stood there, his large brown eyes reaching across the room to hold her in his gaze. He then closed his eyes to preserve the moment.

  Taniell, having formed her own image of him to keep, departed without another word.

  By the time the soldiers moved in, Taniell was outside the apartment building. Careful to walk normally, she pretended not to notice them. Only when she was at a safe distance did she turn and backtrack around. Soldiers entered the building in twos as a large man issued orders into a com-link, his face hidden in shadow beneath the heavy lights above the street. She squinted, wanting to see the face of the man leading the assault.

  Just as the man turned his head up toward the building, the image before her shifted.

  She was back in Nolan's flat. Hearing the pounding at the door, she saw her hands—Nolan's hands—keying final destruction instructions on a projected interface to his computer system. Soldiers blasted the lock and forced the door.

  "Stop where you are!" one soldier yelled, leveling his lasgun.

  Taniell felt her fingers continue to move, her eyes frozen on the interface display.

  "Stop!" the soldier repeated, firing his weapon.

  Taniell felt the blow across her back as light dazzled about her. She could still see her fingers race across the terminal. Nolan had activated his force-shield.

  From the corner of her vision, Taniell saw the soldier reset his weapon and fire again. T
his time two other men joined him. Taniell was buffeted against the wall, but despite the pain, she reached up to enter the last command. The soldiers fired once more, collapsing Nolan's shield. To Taniell, it was as if fire had engulfed her lungs and burst from her body.

  "Nolan!" Kamarin screamed, sitting up in her bed and clutching her chest. Panting from the agony of the phantom memory, she focused her thoughts to stop her trembling.

  The nightmares were coming back, mixing memory and imaginings to make her feel the last moments of Nolan’s life. Nolan Depré: Lenalt’s older brother. Lenalt’s hero. Her lover.

  What were they trying to tell her?

  Pulling aside her sweaty sheets, Kamarin rose from her bed, eager to shake off the lethargy of sleep and the lingering effects of her dream. "Damn," she said, distracting herself with annoyance as she glanced at her chronometer. "It's almost midday."

  "Yes, it's about time you woke up, my dear," Steuben whispered, continuing to monitor the rebel leader from his hovercraft as she readied herself.

  Lenalt’s mother had been a dead-end. She did not know where he lived or worked, or how he could be found. Even with the aid of the rogue initiate, Nyla, the best he could do was make sure that she would contact him if she learned anything. Taking her hostage would have gained him nothing. Whether by intention or stupidity, the Colonel fully expected that Depré would sacrifice his mother for the Movement. Still, one unexpected thing had come from the visit: The address of Taniell Kamarin’s apartment.

  Given Kamarin’s care when departing from their meetings, and Steuben’s inability to use HOPIS agents that might notice the inconsistencies between his mission progress reports and his actual activities, it was information that he had been unable to obtain on his own. Yet now he had, and with a cover story to justify his purposing of HOPIS equipment, he was ready to act on it. One way or another, Steuben would make the rebels believe they needed him. All he needed was the right information to develop a strategy. Kamarin was now his key.