Variations on the scene rippled unevenly around the table, until Eren, Casmir and Corradeo were the only ones present who weren’t visibly ill.
Corradeo drew in a deep breath and stood once more. “Everyone, I apologize for your discomfort. When I came here to Epithero, I did so in the hope of appealing to your reason and intelligence, both of which are in ample supply in this room. But I underestimated the extent of the damage your Primors inflicted upon you. I deeply regret that this action has proved necessary, but there is no other way. If our world is going to change, it must be forced to do so, and this begins with the people in this room.”
Ferdinand again tried to stand, then planted his palms on the table and swayed woozily, narrowly stopping himself from diving face-first into his soup bowl. “What have you done to us?”
“The soup contained nanobot swarms programmed to target the integral nodes in your brains. Among other effects, you’ve all been disconnected from your integrals—and their regenesis servers.”
Amid the exclamations and shouts exploding around the table, Eren did not check with Corradeo for the final go-ahead. He’d been given license, but even if he lacked it, he would not be stopped now.
He stood, removed the small handgun from his pants pocket and raised it until it was aimed at the bridge of Torval’s nose, right between the eyes. “This is for Cosime, you worthless piece of shit.”
He pulled the trigger.
Blood and brain matter splattered across the far wall like a splash of performance art, and Torval’s lifeless body collapsed over the arm of his chair.
A shocked silence fell for two seconds that stretched into an eternity—then everyone was shouting again. Chairs were overturned; bodies moved, but in their ailing states, they rarely succeeded in moving far.
Eren swung the gun to the left and sighted down on Ferdinand, raising his voice above the fervor. “What do you think, Ferdinand? Are you next? You’re responsible for this whole fucking disaster—”
“Eren.” Corradeo’s voice was low, steady, and quite threatening.
“He does deserve it.”
“Even so.”
Eren sighed, lowered the weapon, resumed his seat and turned up his glass of champagne. This seemed to further agitate Ferdinand, who stumbled backward and began zig-zagging haphazardly toward the door. “Torval was right. He’s a psycho! Get that madman out of here!”
The two guards at the door glanced uneasily between Ferdinand and Corradeo. The latter shook his head minutely, and they didn’t move.
Otto elasson-Machim leaned into the table with nearly enough force to flip it. “What is—how could you—do this?”
Corradeo surveyed the chaos engulfing the dining room; he looked a little sad, but otherwise unflustered. “Torval was a war criminal and an unrepentant murderer. His genetic template was corrupt beyond any possibility of rehabilitation. He did not deserve to share a table with elassons such as yourselves. His mere presence was poisonous, he destroyed everything he touched, and we could not move forward so long as he remained in our midst. Eren acted at my direction, and any repercussions for his actions will fall on me alone. Now, what’s done is done, so let us move on to the topic you genuinely care about.
“Regarding the severing of your connections to the integrals and their regenesis servers, I say this: it is time for you to earn your right to immortality. You all act as if there are no consequences for your actions and no price to be paid for your inconsiderate, thoughtless, dangerous decisions. It is time to remind you that there is always a price to be paid.
“Do you want to continue living forever in positions of authority? Prove you are worthy of doing so. Pull yourselves together and start acting like leaders, like honorable stewards of your people, instead of selfish, spoiled children.”
Lars elasson-Theriz looked as if he was seconds away from vomiting all over his silk shirt. “What about the elassons who aren’t here? Are you sending assassins to poison their food as well?”
Eren shot Corradeo a questioning look, eyebrow raised. He’d be more than happy to do the job.
A corner of Corradeo’s lips twitched, but the man suppressed any smile he might have wanted to grant Eren. “The simple fact that they are not here indicates they have better sense than any of you. They’ve refused to betray Concord or comport themselves like petty tyrants, so I have considerable hope for the value they can bring to our people’s future.
“Nonetheless, I am issuing a decree that will affect them as well. From this day forward, the title of elasson is no longer a birthright. If you desire to lead from a position of power, I say again: prove you are worthy of doing so. As of now, anyone, whether branded by the system as asi, ela or elasson, is capable of proving they are worthy of doing so. I look forward to seeing who rises to greatness when the system is no longer rigged.”
Corradeo considered the bloody mess decorating the northeast corner of the room, his brow furrowing briefly. “Now, seeing as this room is no longer suitable for dining, I suggest we reconvene in the lounge or, if you wish, you may retire to your rooms. Any queasiness you’re experiencing should subside in a few hours.”
Ferdinand closed the door to his bedroom suite and fell against the wall beside it, his breath heaving out of his lungs. He’d managed to keep the hyperventilating at bay as he’d walked-and-not-run from the dining room all the way to his private residence. But now the sweat beading on his forehead began dribbling into his eyes as his chest spasmed.
He’d almost died.
The concept of death—real, permanent denouement—had never held any concrete meaning for him. Yes, in the immediate aftermath of the Primors’ mass execution, he’d felt a few twinges of concern over the possibility that the anarchs were apt to come for him, too. He’d added a couple of additional regenesis labs to his network, and the angst had soon faded, as Anadens were, for all intents and purposes, immortal. The asis occasionally saw their genetic makeup fiddled with enough during a given regenesis that they woke up a transformed person, but elassons had already reached the peak of perfection. It came with the title.
It was possible he’d never before felt true fear in his life. Not until now.
His heart beat mercilessly upon his sternum; the pulse it drove pounded in his ears. What was he going to do? He couldn’t stay here, not with an insane despot making the rules while allowing his bloodthirsty pet assassin to run free around the grounds. He’d rightfully claimed this estate as his own, but now he had to leave it behind in order to save his life.
All visions of his grand plans for a new Anaden Empire with him stationed at the helm vanished as he threw a bunch of clothes in a bag. He’d go to Menaris first. It was run by Kyverns and should provide a friendly haven. From there, he’d figure something out. Some way to counteract the effects of the poison he’d been dosed with so he could reconnect to his regenesis lab network. Then, some way to reclaim a measure of power. He’d hide for a time if he must, but he wasn’t ready to give up his dreams of a glorious Anaden future forever.
His stomach was still in revolt from the poison and the fear, and twice his packing was abandoned while he rushed to the lavatory and vomited. But finally he was ready…or rather, everything was in the bag. He had no idea how to measure his state of readiness, as he’d never been a fugitive before.
He threw the bag over his shoulder and rushed for the door—but stopped short. If this Praesidis monster discovered him leaving, the man might lock him up here on the estate. Or worse, let the Idoni assassin loose on him. He needed to be smart and quiet about this.
He tossed the bag on the bed in a fit of panic, then retrieved a smaller, more professional tote and transferred everything he could fit into it. Next, he sent a message to Basra and Felipe, in which he stated that he needed to take a quick trip to meet with one of the absent elassons who was displaying an interest in joining them, and he expected to be back at the estate by morning.
He grasped the handles of the tote in one hand, straigh
tened his hair in the mirror, and strode confidently out the door.
Breathe in through your nose. Calm. You aren’t suffocating. Breathe out through your mouth. Chin up, attitude on. You aren’t afraid.
He passed several ela servants as he traversed the least-used hallways that would bring him to the side exit, but no elassons, so he went unchallenged. The guard at the exit greeted him, which he ignored, because he’d always done so in the past. Then he was outside.
The flower-lined pathway to the landing complex stretched interminably before him. One foot in front of the other. Don’t run. Be poised.
There wasn’t much in the way of comings and goings between the house and the landing complex, given how this was a retreat, and no one appeared to waylay him during the quarter-kilometer gauntlet. He reached his small personal ship and, as soon as he was inside, locked it up tight. All but safe now…unless the Idoni assassin had brought a rocket launcher.
The thought sent his heart racing anew, and his vision swam. Sit in the cockpit chair. Remember the proper launch procedures. Don’t attract attention.
His fingers trembled as he activated the liftoff sequence, and he wiped new sweat out of his eyes as the engine engaged. Distress and relief muddled together in his mind as the ship banked above his magnificent, sparkling city and accelerated away.
28
* * *
DOMOR
Small Magellanic Cloud
Tales of a mysterious vigilante were whispered in every tavern and club on Domor. According to one story, this one-man crime-fighting squad had strung up an Erevna dealer who sold tainted hypnols from the awning outside his shop, naked and branded with ‘killer’ across his chest. In another version, a Naraida woman suspected of selling Volucri hatchlings to local gangs for use in sport fighting contests was dropped out of a skycar from two hundred meters in the air.
The stories got more outlandish from there, and Nyx absorbed the various details only insofar as they provided clues as to how she could find this vigilante, whom the local populace had dubbed ‘the Shadow Stalker.’
Domor was a bustling and diverse planet, but average for a developed world in most respects, except for a higher than normal crime rate. Hence the vigilante, she supposed. His work had been spotted in at least four of the major metropolitan areas, so her search grid was frustratingly expansive.
Nyx went from neighborhood to neighborhood, asking questions of friendly residents, getting a bead on the local criminal element and scoping out their territories in each area. Thus far, to no avail.
Now she sat in a booth in the rear of a sandwich shop and ordered an iced tea, then dropped her head against the riser behind her. The vigilante was a chameleon, an enigma, and it didn’t help that his reputation had reached mythological proportions among the population. Separating fact from fiction was becoming increasingly difficult.
She would find him; in her life she’d found many people far more cleverly hidden. But it was going to be a challenge, especially if, as she suspected, her quarry was a fellow Inquisitor. She felt the weight of every passing hour and day with growing impatience. Though she sent and received regular messages to and from her grandfather, still she worried about him, facing down all those recalcitrant and rebellious elassons on his own. She needed to get back to him soon. What if—
Lontias elasson-Praesidis slid into the booth opposite her. He wore rugged black pants and a gray sweatshirt with the hood draped loosely over his head. “Why are you looking for me, Nyx?”
Damn him for getting the jump on her! “It’s good to see you, too, Lontias.”
His cold expression softened. “And you, sister. But why am I seeing you now? I thought you were gone. Dead, maybe, like so many of the others, or on a galactic walkabout.”
“You’re not too far off on the latter. I’m here to ask you to come with me.”
“On walkabout?”
“No. That was…I’m back now. And I’m not alone. Our grandfather sent me to find you—to find any of us who remain.”
“Our grandfather? What does that mean? The Primor is dead, and we have no parents.”
It was possible the ‘grandfather’ designation applied solely to her, she who he claimed was born of his daughter aeons ago in a past she’d never known. But she doubted Corradeo would mind all of the Inquisitors thinking of him this way. And she should be magnanimous enough to share him with the others, of course.
“We were lied to, Lontias. In so many ways and for such a long time. The Primor was not who he claimed to be, and he used us for his own ends without our knowledge. But grandfather will want to tell you the rest himself. Will you come with me?”
He shot a furtive glance around the restaurant. “You might not have noticed, but I’m doing a lot of good here.”
“So I hear. You’re the only thing the locals talk about. But I think you’ve frightened the resident criminals sufficiently at this point. The mere threat of you coming for them should keep them in line.”
“For a while. Who else do you have with you?”
Her lips pursed. “In truth? Only you. Xeshar died long ago. Kolgo is…” she shuddered “…not available.”
“I know exactly what he is. I’ve killed him once already, but it didn’t do any good. I assume he’s got a regenesis link to some underworld lab somewhere.”
She huffed a breath, admittedly impressed. “I assumed the same. I’m still searching for Ziton and Phoebe. And that’s everyone. It’s possible you and I are the only ones left alive and sane.”
“Not certain about the second part, but I do what I can.” He crossed his arms atop the table. “What does this ‘grandfather’ person have planned?”
“To save our people from themselves. Ferdinand elasson-Kyvern attempted a coup against Concord, and our grandfather wants to undo the damage this caused. He wants to teach all Anadens how to reach their potential without the crushing strictures of the Primors or the mind control of their integrals.”
“He wants us to become more like the Humans.”
“Is that so terrible a goal?”
“No. They’re a screwed-up bunch to be sure, but not nearly so much as we are.” He stared at her intently, wheels spinning behind his eyes. “You were always the most level-headed, rational one of our lot. You believe in this man and his goal?”
“With all my overly rational heart. He will succeed in guiding the Anadens back to greatness. A better, more peaceful and fairer greatness. I know it.”
Lontias reached up and pushed the hood down to his shoulders, revealing a mop of unkempt, midnight black waves. “Eh, I’ve about run out of criminals worthy of stringing up here, anyway, but I do need to see to one last thing first. Where can I meet you?”
“My ship, the Periplanos, is docked at the public spaceport in Domorono, Bay E15. I can stay here for another ten hours. If this job of yours takes longer than that, then I’ll need to come back for you.”
“It won’t. I’ll see you on the ship.”
Lontias was true to his word. Eight hours after she left him in the restaurant, he showed up at the Periplanos’ bay, wearing the same clothes but carrying a large duffel bag in each hand. “Where are we off to first?”
Nyx motioned for him to come up the ramp and board the ship, then closed the airlock behind him. “I’ve got a lead on Ziton pointing to Scholite.”
“Sounds good. I admit, it’ll be nice to get back to real civilization. I think I’ve been rolling around in the muck of criminals for too long. But why the rush?”
She busied herself with inputting their new coordinates. “I want to return to Grandfather as soon as possible. I don’t like leaving him alone in that pit of elasson vipers for so long.”
Lontias returned from securing his bags to plop himself in the cockpit’s second seat. “If he’s as strong a leader as you suggested, he should be able to take care of himself.”
“He is, without question. He’s lived…well, as I said, he’ll want to tell you himself. I’m simpl
y…” she shrugged “…an Inquisitor. I have an intrinsic need to act as his guardian. His sword and shield.”
SCHOLITE
Milky Way Galaxy
Scholite was mercifully cosmopolitan and relatively crime-free, making it a welcome change for her as well as Lontias. Skytrams raced by overhead between clusters of towers, spiraling aerial gardens and floating platforms. At ground level, the streets were wide and well-ornamented and the shopping options top-shelf.
After spending years living on a spaceship and venturing in the deep wilds of the cosmos, Nyx’s wardrobe had seen better days. The onboard fabricator could only produce basic, utilitarian attire, so she and Lontias split up for an hour while she bought some new clothes. All finely made, but more importantly, all practical yet conforming to the current styles so she wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.
Their target was listed as the Director of Corporate Security for Michanero Production, which owned two square blocks in the middle of downtown. She met Lontias outside the main entrance, and together they went inside.
A sullen-looking Machim asi guard stopped them almost immediately. “Michanero Production is a private company and not open to the public. Can I help you?”
She slipped into the old Inquisitor guise effortlessly, as if it hadn’t been over a decade since she’d properly done this sort of thing. “We’re here to see the Director of Corporate Security.”
“Zoral ela-Praesidis? Do you have an appointment?”
“It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“What’s it regarding?”
“That’s between us and the Director of Corporate Security.”
The guard frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you in to see him without an appointment.”
The problem was, with the Directorate dead and gone, she now wielded no true authority except that which she created through sheer force of personality and persuasion. “The nature of the matter precluded an appointment, but I assure you, he will want to hear what we have to say. You are welcome to guard the open door while we speak to him—”
Echo Rift Page 18