The Island Deception

by Dan Koboldt

  Which is why it took us two days to put the damn thing together. Two days of valuable op time so they could finally get a look at Holt’s new seat of power.

  But the drone was working, and the video feeds were transmitted via comm relay to a company outpost on the other side of the Alissian continent. Chaudri’s research team could get a lot out of it. Shipping lanes, population estimates, that sort of thing. But that wasn’t why they were really here, or why they’d brought the drone. They were looking for the one man who’d recognize it for what it was.

  “Let’s have a look at the walls,” Kiara said.

  “I’m on it.” Logan guided the drone for a sweep of the low stone wall that bounded the north of Valteron. It was a border marker more than a defensive strategy; the city relied more on its ships and economic might for defense than anything else. Logan didn’t even mark any guards along the length of it.

  “Perimeter looks a little light,” he said.

  “Given the number of refugees he’s taken in, I’m not surprised.”

  “Even so, he shouldn’t just—”

  “I think I just saw something,” Kiara said. “Loop it around, will you?”

  “I’d love to.” Which was the truth—he loved flying these things. The only trouble with flying million-dollar drones is that they ruined you for model airplanes.

  He brought the drone around and steered it almost directly over the wall. He saw what she was talking about. “Looks like some kind of new construction.”

  The tower was about three stories tall and, judging by the shape of the stones, built within the last month. How did I miss that? There was a metal contraption on the roof. It had the shape of a shallow bowl, and looked like fine steel shined to a good polish. “What do you think that is?”

  “A signaling beacon?” Kiara offered.

  Logan shook his head. “Too small for that. I’ll slide in for a closer look.”

  “No.” She grabbed his shoulder, and he lurched the drone up and away. “Not until we know what it is.”

  “All right, no flyby.” Christ almighty, don’t wreck the thing.

  “Let’s move and find a vantage point for the real target.”

  “Roger that.”

  When seen from above, the schooner-shaped palace of the Valteroni Prime looked like it was crushing the city’s wide swath of thatch-roofed houses on its way out to sea. That probably wasn’t an accident, either—Valteron had made its fortune from dominating trade, and sea trade in particular. Land merchants from the rest of the country, and even from Tion and Caralis, all trundled their way here to have their goods shipped to distant ports.

  The drone finished its current pass; a terse message appeared on Logan’s screen. Command wanted another look. They must be watching this in real time. He banked the drone to avoid a low-hanging nimbus cloud north of the city.

  “I’ve got some movement,” Kiara said. “East wing of the palace, behind those merlons.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Logan reduced altitude and steered the drone back toward the palace.

  Holt had recommended a thousand-foot hard floor for any drone flights, a height at which the small drone would resemble a large bird to any Alissians who looked up. Trouble was, it was hard to get detailed footage of anything smaller than a building at that height. Even with the Shiva Stare. And Holt himself wouldn’t recognize it, which was the part of this mission they hadn’t told Command about.

  Logan dropped to about a hundred and fifty feet for a quick little pass. He’d just nudge it over the wall of the castle for a little peek, and then drop back out of sight. No harm, no foul.

  “You’re well below the hard floor,” Kiara said.

  “You want to get his attention, don’t you?”

  She frowned, but gave him a tiny nod. Permission granted.

  “Making the approach.” He took the UAV off its safety mode and coasted it across the city rooftops. Someone might be able to spot it, but the thing was so little and fast that they’d never get a close look. The urban camouflage helped—the drone had a photoadaptive skin that mimicked the ambient colors around it. It couldn’t disappear entirely, but it would be hard to pinpoint. Kind of like that beast from the Predator movies, Logan thought. But Holt would know the technology the second he saw it.

  The drone zoomed closer to the palace, capturing a live feed from its cameras the whole time. They only had enough screen space to monitor one, but the other fifteen were recorded on the high-density drive, and also fed back to the research team back at the island facility. And they’re going to have a goddamn field day. The company executives were reluctant to permit any surveillance technology into Alissia. The only video footage they’d taken so far was grainy stuff from pinhole cameras.

  “Here we go,” Logan said. He guided the drone up and over the high stone wall. Just like clockwork. He was so pleased with the deftness of the maneuver, he almost didn’t notice what the video feed was telling him. Kiara’s hand on his arm was the first warning. The camera lens refocused, and there they were. Eight men with crossbows already ranked and loaded. They were looking right at the drone, taking aim.

  “Shit!” Logan said.

  “Get it out of there!”

  He was trying.

  There was no sound, but the flicker of the crossbows and blurs of the flying bolts told the story. The camera shook violently as they struck home. The drone wasn’t armored. The heavy bolts cut its airfoils to pieces. It lurched over as alarm warnings flashed red on the control unit.

  “Losing altitude,” Logan said. He fought with the controls, but it would have taken a magician to keep that bird in the air. The stone floor of the courtyard zoomed up as the drone fell. It crashed hard, bounced a couple of times, and ended up on its side. The video feed showed only a close-up view of the cobblestones. Then a pair of steel-tipped boots loomed large in the frame. The weight on them shifted.

  Oh, no.

  The screen went black. A status warning flashed: Signal lost.

  “Well,” Logan said. “So much for the drone.”

  “If Holt didn’t know we were here, he does now.”

  This had better be worth it.

  They were still lying in their ghillie suits trying to reconstruct what had happened when the palace gates opened. No less than two dozen horsemen charged out, riding at a gallop. They broke up into groups of four, and rode off in six different directions from the palace plaza.

  “I don’t think they’re out for a pleasure ride,” Logan said.

  “Maybe he’s fixed our location.”

  “I don’t see how. He didn’t have that kind of equipment with him when he went AWOL in the first place.”

  But it didn’t mean Holt was without resources. He knew CASE Global’s strategies, for one thing. Logan pulled out his parchmap of the region around Valteron City. Holt probably reasoned that they weren’t in the bay, so he’d be sending these patrols to cover the major vantage points land-side. Six search parties covered a lot of ground when you cut it down like that. He and Kiara were a good half mile out of the city limits, but still.

  “We need to move,” he said.

  “How long do we have?”

  “If they’re pushing the horses, probably about ten minutes until they’re in visual range.”

  They scrambled to their feet and started packing up in a hurry—they couldn’t exactly leave the control console sitting around, even with the drone destroyed. Logan fluffed up the depressions in the grass where they’d been lying prone, and Kiara obscured the most obvious boot prints. No need to talk, just the quiet efficient business of two career soldiers who knew what they were about.

  Not exactly our first barbecue.

  Back in the early days, before they lost Relling at sea, he and Kiara had run countless in-world operations together. You spent enough time with another soldier, and you learned how the both of you fit together into a cohesive machine. That’s why he’d loved training on Alpha Team for CASE Global, once he’d l
eft the navy. Ended up with a few new brothers-in-arms. Sure, a lot of those brothers were sisters, and the arms hadn’t been used in combat Earth-side for a few hundred years, but the camaraderie was the same.

  They were packed up and mounted again in six minutes. A quick sweep of the land between them and Valteron City showed that Logan’s hunch had been good: one of the mounted patrols was headed more or less directly toward them. They hadn’t been spotted, but if they’d lingered a few minutes more, the riders might well have caught them by surprise.

  “Holt’s got the whole rapid response thing down. I’ll give him that,” Logan said. He touched his heels to the gelding and turned northeast, back toward the abandoned farmhouse they were using as a base camp.

  “He should. After all, he’s building an army,” Kiara said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “A ton of little things. The horse buying, and the crossbow upgrades. The ships from Pirea.”

  Logan scratched his chin. “I guess those are what you’d expect if he’s mustering of forces.”

  “I’m certain he is, but that’s not what bothers me.”

  “What’s worse than that?”

  “He knew to expect us today.”

  “That’s just how he thinks,” Logan said. “The guy’s been two moves ahead of us since day one.”

  “Fine. But he had no reason to expect that we’d bring the drone, though. So . . .”

  She was right about that—it had been an uphill battle with the executives to get the exemption. Fat lot of good it did us. “So how did he know to be waiting for it?”

  “Exactly.” Kiara made one last sweep of the palace with her binoculars—maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of Holt on the walls—and then spurred her horse after him. “I’d sure as hell like to figure that out.”

  Chapter 31

  Mutton Night

  “Preparation is a magician’s best weapon, but sometimes you have to improvise.”

  —Art of Illusion, February 2

  Quinn hustled back to his room to get ready. He normally didn’t give much thought to his wardrobe when he ate with Pireans, because they kept it casual. Boots, breeches, and a clean woolen shirt. But mutton night was apparently a special occasion—based on how much the Pireans were talking it up—and he’d convinced Jillaine to come. That called for something special.

  He dug into his largest saddlebag for the last of his garment pods. These were compressed, vacuum-sealed containers about the size of a large potato, disguised to look like lumps of charcoal. They wouldn’t burn, though, since each one contained a garment made of CASE Global’s proprietary fireproof poly-blends. He broke open the one he’d marked SO, for special occasion, and shook it out. The shirt was light as silk, and the color of polished silver. With a couple more vigorous shakes, the wrinkles fell away. Quinn whistled. That’s a hell of a material.

  The garment technology hadn’t even hit the market, but once it did, CASE Global was going to make a killing.

  He tugged on his best jacket over it, a linen-and-silk job in dark gray. This was also fireproof, and customized with a number of hidden pockets. Then it was time for the breeches and riding boots to put him at the peak of Landorian men’s fashion. Truth be told, he preferred the more flamboyant Kestani fabrics, but most Landorians wouldn’t be caught dead in one. He strapped the elemental projector on his right arm and gave it a quick test. The thing had held up surprisingly well in Sella’s class, but it was running low on juice. The backup was already about dead.

  He closed up the saddlebags and shoved them under the bed, just to be cautious. He couldn’t lock his door from the outside, so anyone could wander in here and poke around while he was out.

  Quinn hustled to make it to his rendezvous with Jillaine. He rounded the bend and caught sight of the chandlery, just as the last sliver of sun remained above the horizon. Right on time. The door to the chandlery was closed, for the first time he could remember. He started to worry she’d forgotten, until he saw the glow of lamplight beneath the door. Thank God.

  He knocked three times, and fought the sudden feeling of butterflies in his stomach. I feel like a teenager on prom night.

  The door swept open, and he realized he’d been wrong about the lamplight. The orange glow came from hundreds of candles. Tiny flames danced on every shelf and every wall in the chandlery. Jillaine stood in the middle, and sweet Lord, she looked good. She’d done something with her hair—a bunch of ivory clips held it up in layered tresses. Her dress was the color of moonlight. It traced her form down to the waist, where it flared out to the ankles like a ball gown. Quinn was distantly aware that he was staring with his mouth wide open, but couldn’t help it.

  Oh, my God, it is prom night.

  She gave him a shy little smile. She wasn’t completely sure of herself, and somehow that made her even more attractive. She was real and she was lovely and she was right here. The silence stretched. He should say something. Well, I should close my mouth, and then say something.

  “You look . . .” He couldn’t even think of a word that was strong enough. Putting a word to her felt wrong. “You look like a princess.”

  She smiled. “Have you met many princesses?”

  “I’ve seen a few of them, but not a one as lovely as you are.”

  She glided over and took his arm. “Shall we?”

  “Oh, we definitely shall.”

  Jillaine waved a casual hand behind her as they walked out. All of the candles snuffed out at once, in a great puff of smoke. The door swung shut behind them. Quinn raised his eyebrows. She makes it look so easy.

  “How’s the candle business?” he asked.

  “So now you’re interested in what I do?”

  “I’ve always been interested.”

  “So interested that you left the island,” she said.

  He winked at her. “But I came back, didn’t I?”

  She shook her head at him, but relented. “Business is slow, as it always is. That’s what I get for becoming a chandler for people who can summon fire at will.” She snapped her fingers, and a little pinpoint of flame appeared in the air in front of them. It drifted forward as they walked, casting a little orange glow against the encroaching twilight.

  Quinn felt an odd pang of envy. “Not everyone can do that.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Still having trouble finding your magic?”

  “I know the potential is there. I just can’t seem to draw on it when I want to.”

  She squeezed his arm where she held it. “Maybe you haven’t found the right motivation.”

  Or maybe I have.

  “So, why didn’t you want to come if your father was here?” he asked.

  “I’m not speaking to him at the moment.”

  “Oh.” He let that sit for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not especially.”

  “All right. I just thought maybe I could help.”

  She snorted. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “Hey now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When my father came back and said you were . . . gone, I demanded he take me to wherever you’d been. To look for you.”

  “Aw, thanks,” Quinn said. It was more than a little touching that she’d wanted to ride off and rescue him. She’s adorable.

  “He refused to let me do anything, because it was on the mainland.” She shook her head and muttered, “Said it was ‘too dangerous’ for me.”

  “Honestly, I could have used you. You’re pretty dangerous yourself.”

  She gave him a sharp look, like she thought he was mocking her. Finally, though, she said, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Quinn elected not to take offense at that, even though he’d said a pile of other nice things to her. “Well, I appreciate that you tried.”

  “My father did not. Hence the silence between us.”

  They reached the wide village green that surrounded the Pirean to
wer. The door was propped open, and the welcoming glow of the common room drew people from all directions, like moths to a flame. Quinn and Jillaine were no less immune. The smell and the noise pulled them through the doorway.

  A crowd of friendly faces waited inside. Quinn savored the moment they turned and saw him with Jillaine. Eyebrows quirked. Elbows nudged into neighbors.

  “Quinn! Jillaine!” Leward pushed through the crowd. His face was flushed, either from the exertion or the heat of his own fire pit. “Glad you could make it.” He did a double take. “You look like royalty!”

  “Yeah, we coordinated outfits,” Quinn said. “On account of it being mutton night.”

  Leward grinned. “I’m glad I saved you seats.” He made for the tables, beckoning them to follow.

  Attaboy. Quinn took the lead. It was too tight to keep Jillaine on his arm, so he let his hand slide down to hers. And she held on, which sent a thrilling little tremor up his arm. A few of Leward’s dinner pals took note of this, and gave him the nod. He grinned back at them. Eat your hearts out, fellas.

  Leward ushered them to a couple of ladder-back chairs at one of the long tables. Quinn helped Jillaine into hers and squeezed in beside her. Two place settings—tin plates and mismatched silverware—waited for them, a far cry from the Caralissian tower, but he couldn’t ask for anything more. Leward reappeared with a massive haunch of meat, and cut them each of a slice, churrasco-style.

  “Looks delicious. Thanks, Leward,” Quinn said. He didn’t take his own food from the platters that were lined up in the middle of the table; in the Pirean culture, you served your neighbors. So he found a spoon and delivered a hefty pile of the squash medley to Jillaine’s plate, to her visible amusement. Yeah, that’s right. I know how they do it here.

  Meanwhile, the gray-haired woman on his right sliced off some bread for his own. Betsy was a regular, so she knew to give him three pieces and the bowl of honey. She glanced from him to Jillaine, then back, and gave him a wink. All this while still in deep conversation with the woman across from her.