The Gambit with Perfection (The Phantom of the Earth Book 2)

by Zen, Raeden

  The minister knew why Brody never returned. The memories of his parents, their illegal lives before they’d died—before Hari Barão killed himself and left Brody and Xylia, his childhood friend, to the Janzers—still burned Brody 111 years later.

  “Captain,” Kaspasparon said, “you justify your actions every day, unwisely.”

  The musicians hit their high notes, as did the conversations, and Brody could barely hear the minister when he delivered a familiar lecture.

  “I know you, the boy who ran through my citadel and the developed transhuman you turned into.” He paused during the applause. Keeper bots handed out more champagne. “You’re a good person who—”

  “Minister, they’re sending me to the Vigna system—”

  “Where you will succeed. You will achieve significant conversion and return to those whom love you.”

  Brody didn’t finish his thought—that they’re sending him to determine the status of an alien that he despised, an alien that ruined his friend Antosha, the man who had destroyed the lives of so many families and scientists.

  The minister, as ever, knew what Brody would say, even after all their time apart. “The ansible transmissions didn’t turn Antosha mad.”

  “You weren’t with us on Mars.” Brody felt his blood pump in his head. “You didn’t experience the Lorum with—”

  A cloud of lavender in Brody’s peripheral vision silenced him. “Ah, the People’s Captain,” Lady Isabelle said, “he who has failed longer than any other strike team captain in history.” She glared at Chancellor Masimovian, who stood with his arms folded through his layers of robes and gems. He didn’t look amused. When the chancellor started dancing with two of his maidens, Isabelle twisted her lips, then turned her attention back to Brody. “It’s a pleasure to see you off.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be seen, my lady.” He bowed deeply to her. “Your presence is always welcomed prior to commonwealth missions.”

  “It would do you well to remember why he is the People’s Captain,” Kaspasparon said, “and to remember your place in this commonwealth.”

  “And you, yours, Minister.” Isabelle pushed her hand through her hair, elegantly setting it down her right side. “Leave us, I will speak to the People’s Captain, alone.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Kaspasparon said, without bowing. He joined a group of aristocrats near the bar.

  The musicians began a new verse, while keeper bots weaved through the crowd with curved jars from which smoke curled. It smelled like vetiver and citrus, filled with synisms designed to calm, no doubt, for Brody’s worries seemed to evaporate. The aristocrats and ministers danced. Even Nero and Verena seemed content. Lady Isabelle raised her hand for Brody to accept. He didn’t know what to do. Why wouldn’t she join with the chancellor?

  Brody embraced her, and they swayed together.

  “You think I lack insight,” Isabelle said, “don’t you?” She spun out of his way, her gown whirling around her, before she returned to his grasp. “You think I cannot hear with your ears, or see with your eyes, or understand the truth—”

  “On the contrary, my lady, you are as wise and kind as the gods,” Brody lied, moving his feet quickly with hers, right and left, left and right, mirroring her movements but not her tone, “and more beautiful than all the stars.” Isabelle smiled wanly. “I speak and think only the truth, in your presence or not.”

  “As do I,” she said. She pulled him close to her, and with her lips near his ear, she said, “We sent the wrong scientist to the Lower Level.”

  Brody assumed she referred to Antosha. Who else could it be? “He killed—”

  “You kill, Captain Barão, you kill us all with every failure, you kill the hope within the people, you allow a disease to fester, a corrosion to spread throughout the commonwealth.”

  Brody backed away from her. She couldn’t be blaming him for the attacks in Palaestra, could she?

  She spun into him, and he dipped her. “The people serve,” she added, rising. “They live forever, like you, but unlike you, they’re held accountable for failure, and I will not stand idle, I will not allow you to bring down this commonwealth.”

  Brody was speechless.

  The song ended, as did the dance.

  “Fail the chancellor again,” Isabelle said, “and the next visit won’t be from a courier.” She swept herself away from him back to Chancellor Masimovian, who was guffawing, a glass of wine in one hand, a burning cigar in the other.

  Brody still found he couldn’t speak. Accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter bot, he downed it, then connected to the ZPF. He didn’t think it wise to target Lady Isabelle or Chancellor Masimovian. Whom could he invade? Ministers Charles, Decca, Kaspasparon, Sineine, Gorstian, Portia, Orosiris, Blaylock, Avalonia?

  Gods forgive me, Brody thought, I must do this.

  He accessed the ZPF in an aggressive and deceptive manner he hadn’t in more than fifteen years. He pushed his consciousness into Prime Minister Decca’s mind, understanding him as he would a report in his extended consciousness. Decca’s secrets, his demons, his fears, loves, and soul flowed through Brody. That Decca felt annoyance over the chancellor’s defiance of the ministry in issuance of a unilateral Warning surprised Brody less than the prime minister’s musings about his dead daughter, Haleya Decca, for the chancellor, in allowing … his return, defiled her legacy …

  “Captain?” Nero said.

  The prime minister and Tethys were looking at him strangely.

  Brody realized his heart was thundering, adrenaline pouring through him.

  “Captain?” Verena said.

  Brody exhaled and cut off his connection with the ZPF and the prime minister. He looked down. The glass he’d been holding lay on the floor, shattered. With all the noise, the crowd didn’t seem to notice before a keeper bot vacuumed up the mess.

  “Excuse me,” Brody said, “I need some air.”

  Verena led Brody by the elbow out onto the cobblestone walk. “What’s going on?” she said. “I’ve never seen you like that, Captain. You just froze.”

  When Brody didn’t answer, Nero said, “Brodes, what’s going on?”

  “They’re using the Warning and this mission as cover to bring him back,” Brody said.

  “Who?” Verena said.

  “Antosha Zereoue,” Brody said.

  Verena’s and Nero’s eyes widened.

  “He’s returning to Beimeni.”

  Part II:

  Earth’s Emissaries

  On the Surface: Spring

  In Beimeni: First Trimester

  Days 110 – 111

  Year 368

  After Reassortment (AR)

  ZPF Impulse Wave: Isabelle Lutetia

  Northport

  Gallia, Underground Northeast

  2,500 meters deep

  “Thank the gods you’re here,” Minister Jaide Bartonia said. She embraced Lady Isabelle so tightly the supreme director’s breathe escaped her, then the minister broke away as if struck by Reassortment. “My lady, why aren’t you wearing a synsuit?”

  “I’m the Master of the Harpoons,” Isabelle said. The minister’s eyes darted back and forth. Isabelle put her hand on the minister’s arm. “Falling earth can’t hurt me, child,” Isabelle fluttered her hand, “I’ll brush it aside like the gods.”

  “Very well, my lady, you must be swift, or more lives will be lost!” The minister hand-signaled her guardsmen, who formed ranks behind them; Isabelle ordered her Janzers to follow behind the guardsmen.

  The group hurried along the west side’s highland, a terraformed plateau that held Albireo Station, the city’s interterritory transport station. Oak and maple trees with hollowed trunks sculpted to look almost transhuman dotted the grounds. Swift artificial winds sent twisters of mulch, dust, and greenery airborne, spreading the redolence of pine, maple syrup, and oak. Isabelle gulped the scents into her lungs, preparing herself for the stench of death.

  They soon neared the steps lea
ding down to the intracity transport trench. Isabelle stopped. From this height and position, she could see the entire industrial city: the spiral-shaped and domed citadel lined with synthetic pearls in the center; canyons of carbyne buildings, rimmed and surrounded by lime-green phosphorescent light; the hum of hydroelectric plants near the aqueducts and runoff canals; alloy chiseled into enormous strands of DNA scattered about; ships docked along the wharfs of the Hillenthara River on the south side; and on the east side, smoke plumed upon the horizon intermingling with the Granville sky. But it was the skywalks that spoke loudest to her.

  “I can’t believe how empty the skywalks are,” she said to the minister. The skywalks, which passed over crisscrossing aqueducts and through the buildings, hung eerily quiet at a time during the morning when they’d normally be so overcrowded they would seem like flowing currents in midair. “How bad is the damage?”

  “The terrorists attacked a supply depot on the east side,” Jaide said, perspiration rushing down her face. “I sent my guardsmen to defend the city but …” The minister blinked away tears. Even exhausted and in crisis, she still looked as youthful as the woman who had garnered the first bid at the Harpoon Auction in 243 AR. Her gold and violet hair hung thickly around her fur-lined cape and whipped across her plump lips with a strong gust.

  She pulled her hair away from her face, seething. “Two support pillars collapsed and with them the Seventh Ward.” The minister balled her left hand into a fist. “My poorest … my hardest workers, now buried alive, and the rest of the city paralyzed with fear.” She turned to Isabelle. “My lady, avenge my dead.” She raised her voice, speaking through clenched teeth. “Avenge your people’s slaughter! Hunt down the terrorists, every last one of—”

  “Hush now, my child,” Isabelle said. She uncoiled the minister’s fist and held her hand. “I understand your frustration. I’ll clear the rubble. I’ll rescue the survivors.” The minister tried to speak, but Isabelle cut her off. “You must keep your emotions under control and channel your anger in productive ways for the good of your people.” She dropped the minister’s hand abruptly and spun around, her chameleon cape swirling with more gusts. She eyed her Janzers. “Soon, my friend,” she twisted to the minister, “we’ll have our vengeance against the terrorists.”

  When Isabelle arrived at the east side and the Seventh Ward, the destruction was far worse than she imagined. She smelled death and felt her back muscles constrict, as if Reassortment twisted her spine. She pressed her hand to her chest over the golden phoenix that hung from a golden chain around her neck. Mineral crushers, which consumed limestone and granite, would not be of use here; the structure of the territory had been compromised by the collapse.

  Isabelle hand-signaled her Janzers, who coordinated their telekinetic energy within the ZPF; they removed alloy beams, granite, wires, pipes, carbyne, limestone, and corpses. When the Janzers had cleared enough debris, Isabelle stepped through the smoke. She halted, cleared her mind, raised her arms, and closed her eyes, concentrating her consciousness in the ZPF. Sensing the waves and particles of matter within the Earth as only she could, she opened her eyes slowly. She telekinetically parted the remaining debris, clearing a two-kilometer tunnel through the earth wide and tall enough for transhumans to crawl in.

  She took controlled breaths to settle her singing heart. Her arms and legs trembled, while sweat budded on her neck.

  You must hurry, Lady Isabelle sent to the Gallians. I won’t be able to hold this for long.

  Thousands and thousands of men and women of the Seventh Ward crept out, first slowly, then so fast they looked like ants rushing to sugar. Isabelle feared they might crash into her. Their faces were covered with dust, their tunics and bodysuits torn, their bronze skin streaked with blood and bruises. They surrounded her in concentric circles, kneeling. When the last of the Gallians had escaped, Isabelle collapsed, and so did the rubble, spreading thick smoke toward the crowd.

  Isabelle remained conscious. She sensed one of her Janzer divisions access the ZPF, forcing the smoke to the Granville sky where vents sucked it out of the territory. She heard a faint chant, noises that sounded as blurry as her vision. Soon she couldn’t mistake the words: Serve Beimeni, live forever. Serve Beimeni, live forever. Serve Beimeni, live forever.

  Their chorus gave her strength, and Isabelle Lutetia, Lady of the First Ward of Beimeni City, Supreme Director of the Department of Communications and Commonwealth Relations, and Master of the Harpoons, found her lips lifting in a smile. She pushed off the ground with her hands, reclining.

  The crowd parted before her, revealing a group Gallians who made their way through the throng. They encircled her and lifted her above their heads. A Janzer division rushed forward, then stopped at Isabelle’s command. The Gallians kept the supreme director aloft, their hands grasped around her feet, ankles, thighs, back, neck, arms, and head. Their grips were strong and secure. Isabelle felt a surge of adrenaline flow through her. They raised and lowered her and shouted so loudly that she worried the rest of the city might crumble as well.

  Finally, they set her on the ground on her feet. She raised and lowered her hands in the air, calling for silence.

  “I cannot give you back your homes,” she began. She licked her lips and tasted minerals. She frowned, then continued, “I cannot bring your loved ones back from the dead.” Isabelle raised her fist in the air and moved it in rhythm with her telepathic message: But I promise you, I will find the terrorists responsible for this destruction and bring them to justice!

  The crowd roared. Isabelle moved her chin up and down swiftly, then hand-signaled the Janzers. Some began handing out clothing, food, water, and benaris; others began the reconstruction process, moving material through the air with ease of thought.

  Lady Isabelle, along with a Janzer division, marched toward the intracity transports.

  Beimeni City

  Phanes, Underground Central

  “Were you nervous when you delivered the Warning to the Barão Strike Team?” Lady Isabelle said.

  “You’ve taught me to control my emotions well, my lady,” Valentine said assuredly. “I felt nothing.”

  The courier sat across from Isabelle upon seating built into an oblong porcelain tub in the largest chamber in Phanes Spa. The warm soapy water steamed and bubbled close to their necks, smelling like crane flowers and torch ginger. The songs from violinists echoed from speakers upon pedestals. Yeuronian migrant workers dressed in silk gowns knelt behind them, massaging their naked shoulders.

  “Good,” Isabelle said, “good. You did very well.”

  “Did I?” Valentine crumpled her brow. “Then why do you look so sad?”

  “It’s the steam and the essential oils, child.” Isabelle lifted the masseuse’s hands from her shoulders and ordered her to depart. “You’re finished too,” she said to Valentine’s masseuse. “Leave us.” The supreme director rolled her neck along the soft towel that sat upon the tub’s rim, and though she inhaled deeply, she didn’t imbibe flowery scents; she smelled death, spread from the ashes and winds of Northport. It was a scent she knew too well, one that didn’t easily evaporate from her nose.

  Valentine inclined her head. She appeared older than an adolescent, with vibrant reddish-violet eyes, plump cheeks, thin lips, and long hair that twisted around her neck. “What troubles you, my lady?”

  Isabelle worked with her couriers nearly as often as she did her Harpoon candidates. But where the candidates received accelerant injections to speed their growth to adulthood to within eighteen to thirty-seven days (depending on the developer), couriers passed from infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood over a traditional biological timeline of about twenty Earth years. Valentine never acted like an adolescent, excelling in math, science, and language comparable to the fully developed Harpoon candidates.

  Isabelle wanted to tell her that the chancellor’s policies had led to out-of-control population growth and economic malaise; that Reassortment continued seeping un
derground and was as deep as one thousand meters inside the Earth; that the Harpoon Champion they hired to find a cure had failed to do so for far too long; that a terrorist organization formed by one of the commonwealth’s founders was systematically destroying the world she’d built; that she feared she was losing control of the underground—

  Isabelle sighed. “You’re a perceptive one, my sweet.” She smiled wanly. “Come, sit by me.”

  Valentine eased across the tub to where Isabelle sprawled, her arms strewn across the porcelain rim, her feet crossed and perched on the seating adjacent to her. “Will you brush my hair?”

  Valentine nodded, and Isabelle telekinetically sent a brush to her from a nearby stand. The supreme director closed her eyes as Valentine eased the brush through her hair. She missed the days of her own adolescence, when her dreams had seemed as real as the commonwealth’s sky. “Have I ever told you about my own development?” Isabelle asked.

  Valentine stopped brushing midstroke. “No, my lady,” she said, then continued.

  “My developer was the finest in all Underground Central,” Isabelle began. “The Lady Faizah Marsellessa.” In her mind’s eye, Isabelle could see the lady in her gowns and capes, drifting from candidate to candidate, offering cookies and wisdom.

  “Development in those days took about eleven years for a newborn baby to reach adulthood and qualify for the Harpoon Exams. When I was an adolescent, the lady let me watch performances of the Barremian Ballet at Hammerton Hall …” Isabelle felt sad, thinking about it.

  “My lady?” Valentine said, and when Isabelle turned her head slightly, “you mentioned … performances?”

  Isabelle pushed her hands through the warm water, imagining she was onstage. “Lady Faizah told me how I’d be like those dancers one day, athletic, beautiful, strong, talented, and intelligent. ‘The consortiums will line up during the auction, with the Barremian Consortium first,’ the lady assured me. ‘You’ll impress them with your dance moves and when you tire of that you’ll write plays for them instead. With your mind and body, you’ll be the most famous entertainer in the commonwealth.’ Alas, the lady was mistaken. I didn’t receive a bid from the Barremian Consortium, or any other.” Isabelle’s tone turned sour. “I was purchased by Chancellor Masimovian.”