Derrick gave a short laugh. Despite his many public appearances before that day, he had still been nervous. He wondered how he would have felt if he had truly known what that attention could cost him. Derrick's thoughts turned to his father's ascension speech. He had been very young, but he still recalled a part of it.
"The time is past for toleration of even the slightest abuses by those in our government."
The remark had been a response to corruption allegations during the reign of Astov IV, Derrick's paternal grandfather. On that day, the new Count-Grandee had issued orders which led to the execution of over ten percent of the grand-county's major and minor officials.
"No leniency, no exceptions."
There were always exceptions, he commented bitterly. For always the same reasons.
-
Depré carefully assembled the pieces of his makeshift weapon in the privacy of the servants' washroom. Subject to security scans every time he entered and exited the Palace, Depré utilized the small items he had gradually smuggled in, along with common mechanical devices on hand for use by the servants.
When he finished, Depré smiled. The weapon would not kill Derrick, but it would generate enough of a charge to render him unconscious, and thus at Depré’s mercy. Its firing would also not trigger any alarms. Despite the increased security presence caused by the recent bombings, Lenalt still hoped simply to leave the Palace normally afterward. Having established a pattern of staying after his work shift was over, he did not expect any serious complications.
Now all Lenalt had to do was find the new Possór lord. Or just wait for him, the rebel thought, well versed in his mark's habits and surroundings. It was not hard to guess where Derrick would go to be alone for a while. The main question was timing.
For he would only get one shot.
-
Three pairs of boots marched down the main corridors of another residence with an urgency that defied anyone who might dare to impede their progress. Their lock-stepped echoes announced their coming before their wearers were seen. Their glossed black shine was the first thing that demanded observance once they were.
The men to whom they belonged knew where to enter the lair of their quarry, who to see, and what to ask. Checked for weapons, they came with only their papers, personal shieldbelts, com-links and a gift that, despite the nature of its original purpose, was passed with only a novel interest. After entering the building and showing identification and orders, neither verified, they learned where their mark waited. Contrary to what they told those who had admitted them, the men quickly made for the guard station nearest to the targeted man's chambers.
-
"Poor Tillic," Derrick whispered, his thoughts shifting.
The announcement had come while he was en route to Linse Castle. Strangely, the news brought him no further sorrow, his grief already so great, that more ill-tidings could make no difference. He did not even care to hear of the circumstances. "Commander Tillic is dead, Sire—" was all the aide could say before Derrick had walked away.
Derrick wondered if his old friend received the note he had sent to his apartments, asking the guard commander to join him there at the castle. Sighing, he dismissed any thought of what might have happened if he had just summoned Tillic directly. What did it matter now?
"I am sorry," Derrick said, his voice faint. "I know you were only doing your duty...”
No, he thought, it was more than that.
“I did not doubt you,” he resumed. Deep down, he knew Tillic spoke the truth. That was why he was angry, instead of skeptical. Afraid of the words, Derrick had banished the speaker.
Forgive me, Tillic, he pleaded, ashamed of the cruelty he had inflicted on his friend. Derrick could not help but conclude that he was responsible for the pain which must have ultimately overwhelmed the aged guard commander.
Forgive me.
-
After unsuccessfully asking a few Palace "regulars" where Derrick was, Depré went to a nearby security room. "Do you know where Lord Derrick is?" he asked, as if it were important.
Judging Depré to be a servant, the lieutenant looked contemptuously up from his desk. "He disappeared," the man said, irritated at his time being wasted by one of the Palace "mice."
Depré nodded comprehendingly, thanked the surprised lieutenant, and left. Puzzled, but disdainfully amused, the recently transferred security officer had barely returned to his work when Henrald Steuben came up to him, having come to the Palace to see Lousin Henely.
"Lieutenant," Steuben began, having caught sight of Depré. "Who was that man who just left?" While the Colonel was not in uniform, the young officer noticed the small rank insignia on Steuben's collar. His observation saved the man from the consequence of a flippant reply.
"One of the servants, Sir," the lieutenant replied, rising from his chair to stand at attention. "I don't know his name."
"What did he want?"
"He asked where Lord Derrick, I mean, Lord Legan was, Sir."
"What did you tell him?" Steuben asked, already knowing the answer.
The lieutenant hesitated nervously. "I told him Lord Legan had disappeared, Sir."
Steuben’s eyebrow rose. "What do you mean?"
"I was just getting rid of him, Sir. I don't know where Lord Legan is." The man shrugged helplessly. "I was just assigned here—"
"Carry on, Lieutenant," the Colonel said, not wanting to hear excuses. Steuben departed without returning the man's salute.
-
“Lord Legan turned off his com-link, Ma’am,” the security officer on the viewscreen replied, “and left instructions that he not be disturbed.” Despite his firm voice, the man’s young face betrayed uncertainty.
"Locate him," the captain snapped, still in Pablen's auxiliary control room and angry that, despite a second explosion within the greater Palace complex, not all units had been put on alert. "And inform him personally that..."
-
"Can I help you?" one of the guards asked, coolly regarding the three men nearing his post as he sat behind his security counter. The first man who approached did not hesitate.
"Yes, ah...Corporal...?" The man was still drawing close as he glanced down to read a nametag that was not there.
"Corporal Fleck," the guard replied reservedly.
"Yes, Corporal Fleck. We bring a personal message and summons from His Lordship, the Count of Legan..." The man paused to signal one of his associates. "...Together with a small memento from the old Count-Grandee's personal effects."
The man behind him came forward, carrying an oddly styled wooden case in both his hands. The guard looked down with moderate interest, as did the other guard beside him.
"Let's see what's inside there," the corporal instructed.
With a nod, the second man opened the case, revealing two ancient projectile weapons: twins set in opposition, with ammunition arranged at the center of the configuration. A few bullets were missing, suggesting that the tarnished ones remaining were period originals. The first guard’s eyes widened as he smiled. The guns were undoubtedly museum pieces, and were in perfect condition. As if to give the guards a closer look at the antique arms, the man before him reached over and extracted one of the guns. The silencer already attached to the barrel drew no mention, neither guard being alarmed by such outdated weaponry. To their shock however, the man spun the gun in his hand and fired, shooting them both through the head with expert precision. They fell without drawing their lasguns, or activating their shields. After firing the second shot, the shooter disabled the monitor overlooking the station post with a third.
The other two men had moved as the two guards went down. The first came forward with what looked like a bulky com-link. This he attached over a section of the post's security console. With the ranking guard's name and digitized voice pattern now recorded, the device would buy them time once someone contacted the duty station about the blank monitor.
The team's third man swung to the left, removin
g the guards' gun/shield-belts and placing a small device on their foreheads. Activating them, the man stepped away, handing a belt to each of his partners. The two men gave him their own shieldbelts in return.
Generating a temporary shield over each of the guards, the attached devices disintegrated the two bodies in a brilliant red flash, leaving the floor with only a mild discoloration, and a few small items which could not be consumed. These the man quickly swept under the counter with his foot as he fastened the belts around his waist, hiding them under his loose-fitting shirt.
-
"Report," the captain ordered as she entered the room. She had just finished questioning one of Derrick's Palace couriers.
"She continues to refuse to speak to us, Ma'am," the officer replied, gesturing toward the disheveled suspect who had been seen entering Tillic's chambers.
"I told you I know nothing!" the silver-haired prisoner insisted. "This is a mistake! I wasn't there! It wasn't me!"
"Call Doctor Gila and Fratér Orqué," the captain instructed, ignoring the old woman's pleas. "There are to be no delays."
"You can't do this!" the woman rasped, guessing their intentions.
"I need to know if there are any more bombs, where they are—"
"My mind won't be invaded!" the woman screeched. "I have rights! My thoughts belong only to me!"
"—their type, and who else is involved."
"Right away, Ma'am," the officer replied as the woman prisoner screamed more protests.
-
"I can't tell you much about him, Colonel," the manservant said, agitated by Steuben's urgency and abruptness. "He's been working here at the Palace for almost a year now, although he was recently promoted to wait on Lord Derrick." The man paused a moment, unconsciously biting at his lower lip. "He's nice enough though, and everyone says he's up to the job."
Steuben's eyes narrowed as he wondered at the security breach which allowed Depré to pass the required background check for his position. "Lenalt was looking for Lord Legan not too long ago," Steuben said. "Some new security officer told him that Derrick had ‘disappeared.’"
The manservant laughed suddenly. “Oh! That's just what we say when Derrick's in his special private room."
"What room?" Steuben demanded.
-
Derrick exhaled deeply and lazily proceeded to look at the small box he had found in one of his apartments. A sealed note had come with it, and though he did not know when his father would have had the chance to leave it for him, it was in the old Count-Grandee's handwriting.
Let Not the Meek Ward the Earth.
The words had no immediate meaning for Derrick, and he was content to let the message keep its secrets for now. He was simply too tired for riddles, and too tired for answers.
For the people Derrick had cared about were gone. Even Soror Barell was gone—or soon would be—off to her duties at a school on Valier. Gone. All gone.
Derrick allowed himself to forget about his losses, just as he forgot about father's gift, choosing instead to distract himself by opening one of the room's larger windows. He did so, and was fondly greeted by the wind and smell of the sea. The sensations soothed him.
Standing there silently, he breathed in the cool air, feeling its moisture on his face.
-
The three pairs of boots quickened their pace. Cloaked with an aura of importance, no one challenged them. Still, once security control noticed the dark monitor, the guard station would be called. Then they would only have the time it took for someone to ask a question which the programming of the synthesized voicing mechanism could not adequately answer, or for someone walking past to take more than a casual interest in the unmanned post.
-
"Connect me with the lieutenant on duty," the station officer told one of his subordinates, after speaking to the security captain at Pablen. "I've a report for him to give to His Lordship."
-
Marcea Curreck did not care what Derrick said, dusting the room with a portable vacuum. The place had to be cleaned. She was careful not to disturb anything though. While she was in technical compliance with Derrick's order that no maids be sent to his private study, the Palace housekeeper still did not want Legan’s new lord to discover her clandestine domestic activities.
Suddenly, however, Marcea froze and closed her eyes, her sorrow breaking over her as the distraction she had forced upon herself fell away.
Manus Tillic was dead.
Dropping the vacuum, Marcea brought her hands to her face as she sunk to her knees. Tears had barely begun to flow when Depré entered, he secretly having learned how to defeat the room’s locking system.
"What are you doing here, Lenalt?" the housekeeper asked, startled as she picked up the vacuum, wiping her face with her hand. Immediately she became angry at being caught crying in Derrick's special room. And by an underservant, no less. “How did you get in?”
"I am looking for Lord Derrick," Depré replied. “A security officer told me he was here."
“He’s mistaken,” Marcea remarked, following Depré’s gaze to a table where Marcea had placed her com-link. “And the door lock?”
“Lord Derrick told me how to unlock it.” Depré moved toward the com-link as he spoke again. “In case I needed to find him.”
"Did he now?" the ex-HOPIS agent replied, catching him glancing at her com-link again.
“Yes,” Depré answered, knowing the room was soundproofed and free of surveillance.
"Well, since he's not here," Marcea said, casually working her way to a nearby com-screen, “you may leave. I am not finished with—”
Before Marcea could activate the com, Depré lunged at her.
-
Impulsively, Derrick glanced down at the small container, clasped it tightly in his hands, and closed his eyes. Using his special training, Derrick concluded that the object was indeed connected to his father. Aside from that, however, he could not read anything.
Nothing? Derrick wondered distantly through the melancholic fog pervading his mind. My father felt nothing when he left this for me?
Leaning against the windowsill, Derrick made his decision. "I love you, Father," he said, speaking to a memory as he gazed up at the ceiling before untying the ribbon around the box.
Unconsciously, he tilted his head and looked at the old Possór war banners hanging from the rafters. Words proclaiming, "The Final Battle Is Ours" were embroidered on many of them. So too was the once familiar Jackal of House Possór, an old and rarely used battle emblem.
Grabbing the lid firmly, Derrick carefully lifted it back. The pressured movement of the box's hinge was felt more than heard, and Derrick stiffened as he saw what was inside.
-
The three men entered the appointed room, appearing to wait patiently as an old servant scurried forth to speak with his lord. He had not seemed at all interested in the contents of the case they brought. The men watched the servant as he passed a desk and exited to the balcony.
Stooping, the servant said something unintelligible, and a hand came into view behind a lounge chair. Finally the reclining figure stood, and followed the servant back into the study.
The three men said nothing as the servant hurried past them, leaving through the same door they had entered. As the casually attired Jordan leisurely approached, they could see that he still wore his shieldbelt. The faint shimmer indicated it had been activated, though at a low setting. It was an unusual safety precaution to take in one’s own home.
"What do you offer me?" Jordan asked, having just received confirmation that he was now a Knight within the Brotherhood. Now he was connected to both major crime syndicates.
"My Lord," the first man began. "We were dispatched from the Palace to bring you this token that Advisor Biam thought you might like for your collection." The man standing directly behind the first quickly came forward, but Jordan just as abruptly waved him off.
"Leave it on the table," said Jordan. Although he was curious
about the advisor’s sudden interest in currying his favor, the earnestness of the man with the gift annoyed him.
The man hesitated. "But my Lord," the first man pressed, advancing close enough for Jordan to see his eyes' mismatched coloring, "we were ordered to take back your response."
Jordan made a face as he walked in front of his desk. Perhaps some acknowledgment might be offered. After all, Advisor Biam could be useful. Before being given permission to approach however, the second man took another step toward him. Jordan's eyes came up to stop him. The man responded with a bow and gestured to the burden he carried, offering to open it.
Jordan glanced at the other two men. "Leave it on the desk," he repeated, eying the man with the case as he moved to the wall on his right. The center man pulled out his captured lasgun, leaving Jordan time only to increase the power of his personal shield before being shot. The second man, having concealed his weapon beneath the gun case, also fired, the combined force hammering Jordan against the wall. Jordan remained pinned as both men increased the output setting of their stolen weapons and moved closer, never letting their fingers relax on the trigger. It was but a question of time when they would overwhelm and neutralize his shield.
Not bothering to seek momentary cover behind his desk, Jordan closed his eyes and concentrated. As the two advanced, the third man bolted the door and secured the room.
-
Blocking a potentially lethal blow to the head, Marcea countered with a solid punch to the stomach. Her blow connected, although Depré recovered quickly enough to deliver a vicious kick that sent the housekeeper back over a chair and to the floor.
Depré barely had time to disable the room's com-screen when Marcea stood up with yet another of the improvised weapons they both used to slash, pummel or hurl at the other.
-
"Both her contact's face and voice were disguised," the fratér reported, removing his hand from the forehead of the drugged prisoner and terminating his thought-link. "I could not identify her control, or anyone else who was involved. She was not working alone however."
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