The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  “You did?” Again, he was grinding his teeth. “Ah…thank you, milady.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Could I see it, perhaps?”

  “Whatever for?” Anastasia glanced up briefly from the swatch, cheeks flushed with humor. “Do you doubt my ability as a matchmaker, Renton?”

  “Not at all!” Renton cried out, while thinking the exact opposite. “I will look forward to the surprise, then.”

  “Yes, I imagine you might.” Anastasia waved him away. “You never know, Renton. There may be a girl out there for you, after all.”

  Then Mai led him gently from Ana’s chambers, leaving Renton to worry over Gaul Thule, politics, and mixed messages.

  Maybe it was time to move on, Renton told himself, hurrying down the gilded hallway, past all the important people with nothing to do. Time to give up on the dream he could not even dare to think without erecting telepathic defenses, and start thinking about a realistic future. Anastasia was not the only one who could improve their standing with a strategic marriage, after all, and his role as the right hand of the future Mistress of the Black Sun might make the ladies very curious indeed.

  Yes, Renton thought, slipping into a waiting limousine that would ferry him out of the range of the apport-baffling technology the estate employed – that was exactly the line he would deliver, to whomever Anastasia had elected to be his partners for the evening.

  One of them would go for it, Renton thought with a slow private smile. Maybe more than one.

  ***

  “Is all of this truly necessary, Mai?”

  “Naturally, Mistress.”

  “Must it be now?” Anastasia sighed. “There is no possibility of perhaps delaying until after my debut?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The lady’s maid took a step back to regard Anastasia. “Your hair is perfect.” Three hours of labor ensured that. “Your dress and shoes are exquisite.” Tens of thousands of dollars invested. “Your makeup is the very best.” Time and money, again. “Think of it as armor, Mistress. You will never be better suited for this particular battle.”

  Anastasia shook her head gingerly, afraid to upset her hair, and adjusted her corset slightly.

  “Very well. If I must.”

  “That’s the spirit! Now, try not to look too reluctant.”

  Mai smiled and glided to the door to exchange whispers with staff. Anastasia erased any trace of moodiness from her face, striving to create the perfect balance between a polite welcome and beguiling indifference, as she had been coached. She found herself wishing that she had asked Mai for pointers on beguiling before she left. Mai was quite good at that, after all.

  A liveried Vietnamese maid opened the door and announced the Yurchenko Family in flawless Russian, guiding Olesya and her son Simeon to chairs situated in front of but suitably below the dais where Anastasia rested. She nodded generously to her guests, and they both offered deep bows in return. Olesya required the assistance of a maid to find her chair, nearly blind from retinal damage sustained during her Activation. Simeon, Anastasia noted approvingly, remained standing until his mother was seated.

  “It has been too long, Olesya.” Anastasia put a slight emphasis on her familiar usage of the older woman’s name. “It is good to see you! Simeon, you look well.”

  “Thank you, Lady Martynova, for making time for us,” Olesya said, voice hushed reverently. “I know how busy this day must be for you.”

  “It is rather hectic.” Anastasia smiled politely. “I can always make time for you, however, Olesya.”

  This was provisionally true, because Olesya Yurchenko had exercised the utmost discretion in utilizing that privilege. Olesya and the Yurchenko family had been loyal supporters of Anastasia’s mother, transferring their loyalties effortlessly to her daughter on her death.

  Olesya herself was a former classmate of Anastasia’s mother; a bookish woman in her apparent mid-fifties, with curly salt and pepper hair, horn-rimmed glasses, perfectly smooth skin, and tapered eyes that hinted at some Taiwanese ancestry. Anastasia had known her since childhood, and held in her in some esteem. They had enjoyed a comfortable working relationship for years, spoke only Russian in private, and occasionally reminisced about Anastasia’s mother – particularly around Christmas, when Olesya relaxed her usual prohibitions on alcohol.

  Her son Simeon was markedly less personable, though apparently just as loyal. He had graduated the Academy three years earlier, excelling in the Program, and had since distinguished himself in both family negotiation and cartel intelligence. Anastasia had him thoroughly checked over the years, of course, but her agents never turned up anything of note. Like his mother, Simeon was stubborn and determined. Simeon was ambitious and strategically minded like his father. He showed no inclination to drink himself to death, however, as his father had.

  “I will not overstay my welcome,” Olesya promised, smoothing her generous skirts. “Except to remark on your beauty, milady. You remind me more of your mother with each passing year.”

  Anastasia nodded. This year, she thought, there might be some truth to that observation. Three and a half centimeters might not have been much, but it was something.

  “Thank you, Olesya. I can only hope to match your own loveliness. My father, among others, has never forgotten the figure you cut at your own debut.”

  Olesya blushed and waved off the compliment.

  “You flatter me, milady! Let us put all this aside, however, given the importance of the day.”

  Anastasia nodded again and waited.

  “In the matter of your debut tonight,” Olesya said, eyes nervously averted, “I would request a favor, Mistress.”

  “There can be no favors, Olesya, because there can be no debts between us,” Anastasia stated firmly. “You were – are – my mother’s childhood friend and confidant. I will freely give to you whatever you might desire, Olesya, if only it be within the scope of my limited authority.”

  “You are too kind, Lady Martynova!” Olesya cried out, blushing. “I would never ask for such a favor, however.”

  “Thus shall you receive.” Anastasia curbed her impatience. “What can I do?”

  Olesya nodded and took a deep breath.

  “Very well. You have met my son, Simeon.”

  Anastasia had to admit that despite all that, she did not care at all for his hair, which was both excessively styled and entirely too long for her tastes. Other than that, he was fine enough to look at, she supposed, though not nearly as inspiring as Timor. As a dance partner, however, he seemed acceptably presentable.

  “Yes, I have.” Anastasia shot the boy a glance that garnered no reaction. Simeon sat stiff and upright, hands resting on his thighs, expansive chest puffed out, eyes politely focused on the middle distance. “We attended class together at the Academy, one semester, and we have been introduced at cartel events.”

  “I assume that he has rarely spoken to you,” Olesya said, with a knowing grin. “His father was the same. Tongue-tied around the pretty girls.”

  “I cannot imagine how he ever managed to woo you, then, Olesya.”

  “Oh, stop! To be honest, though, he didn’t. Our parents arranged the union in the wake of my debut. Different times, you understand.”

  “Of course,” Anastasia agreed chillily. “How things do change.”

  The change had occurred at Anastasia’s mother’s insistence a decade earlier. Another reason the conservative faction within the Black Sun held animosity toward the Martynova clan.

  “Quite so! It can be rather disconcerting.”

  “Isn’t it just.”

  “My son will never approach of you of his own accord, and your mother – bless her soul – has gone ahead of us.” Olesya’s hand brushed the icons of the Eastern Church that she wore around her neck on worked gold chains. “That’s why I’ve come to present Simeon Yurchenko, the son of Anatoli Yurchenko, confirmed heir to the Yurev Oblast and the Longmire Cartel, a graduate of the Academy and the Khakassia R
efining facility…”

  Simeon stared intently at his feet. Anastasia nodded and kept her expression neutral.

  “…already leading his own reconnaissance unit, in anticipation of assuming full control of cartel affairs at the close of the year. He has served the Black Sun as an intelligence analyst and Operator…”

  “With distinction,” Anastasia said, favoring Simeon with a brief smile. He frowned and grumbled in the endearingly gruff manner of Russian men. “As I recall.”

  Anastasia had discretely maneuvered him out of Renton’s command and to safer harbors when she discovered Simeon’s intentions to serve in intelligence, out of an abundance of caution. Her former bodyguard was not to be trusted alone with a potential suitor, Anastasia suspected, until such matters were settled.

  “It pleases me to hear you say that, milady. He has made me proud, if I might speak truly, Mistress.”

  More reddening and pained muttering. Anastasia found herself liking this side of the boy.

  “He is patient, hardworking, and sober,” Olesya explained, her words unpacking a restrained sadness. Sobriety, Anastasia knew, was an important virtue in the Yurchenko house, after the ignominy of Anatoli’s passing. “He has earned the respect and trust of the Operators under his command, his cartel, and his family.”

  “Of the Black Sun as well,” Anastasia added, studying Simeon closely. “I have heard a great deal about the Operator from the Donbass, and that his actions – diplomatic and otherwise – aided greatly in securing Mariupol without excessive bloodshed. The Operator in command, Lord Qi, spoke extensively of your tenacity and initiative, Simeon.”

  He finally met her eyes. They were the soft brown color of the creek near her dacha when it ran with mud in the summer.

  “I am honored to serve,” Simeon said, his Moscow accent diluted by an education obtained abroad. “The Black Sun, and yourself, Mistress.”

  “In that order?”

  Olesya gave Simeon a worried glance, but Simeon never noticed. His brow furrowed and his frown deepened, but he plowed forward the way Anastasia had suspected he might.

  “No, Mistress. I reversed my loyalties, for the sake of decorum.”

  “Then you exercised good judgement.” Anastasia regarded the mother and son thoughtfully. “Your priorities are firmly in order. Tell me, then, Simeon – what do you do for fun?”

  More discomfort as he grimly approached the problem. Anastasia appreciated Simeon’s fatalism.

  “Simeon enjoys riding horseback and camping in the back country,” Olesya explained hurriedly. “Also, archery, American detective novels…”

  “Mother, please…”

  “…hockey, that awful PlayStation with all the shooting games, I’m sure you’ve heard about it…”

  “Mother!” Simeon gave Anastasia a mortified look. “Not since I was a child, you understand.”

  “You were a child quite recently, then. There is no point in hiding anything from our Mistress. The truth will find its way to her,” Olesya explained firmly. “Simeon also spends more time than I would like at a filthy warehouse with his questionable friends…”

  “Mother!”

  “…who, I would admit, if pressed, are not entirely worthless. You might think as much, from the way they dress, but really, with his generation, that just seems to be normal.”

  “Mother, please!”

  “You said something about a warehouse?” Exhaustion curbed her amusement. “Are you a fan of electronic music, then?”

  “No, not raves. It’s…”

  “…nonsense,” his mother sniffed. “Robots dressed as nurses and bathtubs of fake blood and fire-breathing bears…”

  “…art,” Simeon finished, clearly mortified. “Installation art.”

  “It’s foolishness,” Olesya said firmly. “I worry that he doesn’t get enough sleep. It isn’t all bad, though. The statue he made for the last show was quite nice, even if you can’t tell at all what it’s supposed to be. That’s art these days, though.”

  “I must make time to visit your studio, Simeon,” Anastasia said approvingly. “I was completely unaware.”

  “Simeon has merit, Mistress.” Olesya hesitated. “With respect, he will make a good husband.”

  Simeon looked at the ground and turned approximately the shade of a ripened tomato.

  “I am certain that he will.” Anastasia agreed. “He is not already promised elsewhere?”

  The question was rhetorical. The whole conversation was a formality. Anastasia knew that her guests hung on every word nevertheless, and privately she found their enthusiasm mildly contagious.

  “No, Mistress.”

  Olesya considered saying more, but decorum stopped her from stating the obvious – by accident of birth and station, Simeon had been reserved for Anastasia from childhood, on the off chance that Josef Martynova might think him a good match for his daughter. His dance card for the evening was an audacious blank.

  Anastasia took a long, thoughtful look at Simeon.

  “You’ve been quiet, Simeon.” Anastasia noted. “And all we’ve done is discuss you, rather rudely ignoring your thoughts on the matter. Tell me, if you would – what do you think of the prospect of marriage?”

  His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth curling into a habitual frown. Olesya opened her mouth to respond for him, but Anastasia silenced her with a glance.

  “You are my Mistress. I would be whatever you would make of me.”

  This, Anastasia thought with exasperation, was no way to get to know a boy.

  “That is not a bad answer,” Anastasia allowed, mildly let down. “Not a particularly bold one, however. I appreciate a restrained degree of boldness, personally.”

  Simeon grimaced and nodded. Olesya covered her mouth.

  “Remember that, Simeon.” Anastasia nodded at the maid in the corner of the room. “For when we meet again.”

  Another grim nod from Simeon, while panic and hope fought it out on Olesya’s face.

  “Perhaps another opportunity will arise?” Anastasia smiled gently as the maid and Simeon helped Olesya to her feet. “Tonight, for example. At the ball.”

  Simeon met her eyes while leading his mother by her frail hands.

  “If you have even a moment, I would be honored.”

  “Can you dance, Simeon?”

  “I’ve had lessons, Mistress.”

  “Is that so? Should you be feeling bold, then, Simeon, you might find me receptive, say…around the third dance? Yes, the third would be a good choice.”

  Simeon simply nodded and straightened his shoulders, while Olesya looked like she might faint.

  “Till then, Olesya, Simeon.”

  The maid led them out and, once she was sure they were gone, Anastasia had a quiet laugh in an empty room.

  It was going to be a long day.

  ***

  Renton was unused to delays. When he needed an apport, he generally just found Svetlana and bugged her until she took him where he needed to go. Since that was out of the question, Renton went to the staff and requisitioned an apport, resigning himself to the delay. He spent a quarter of an hour pacing the floor before they found him an outbound apport with a technician with a blonde weave and a runny nose. The apport took him as far as Edinburgh, where the tech planned on picking up a set of VIPs bound to Ana’s debut. It was hardly the smoothest apport he had ever experienced, but Renton arrived intact and nearly on schedule.

  The Edinburgh Black Sun office was a disaster, much of the staff pulled for duty in Harbin, the higher-ups busy trying on their nicest clothes for the Ball. Renton marched in and pulled rank, quickly rounding up a field Operator who was just barely qualified enough to drive the car. He dragged the kid out of a break room, requisitioned the first sedan he could find the keys for in the motor pool, and then lay down in the back seat of the late-model BMW and instructed the young Operator to drive him to Dunbar, on the coast, perhaps thirty minutes away in traffic.

  Ignoring questions an
d grumbling, Renton gave himself firm telepathic instructions not to wake up for the next twenty minutes for anything, beyond summons from Anastasia herself. If it was something inconsequential, such as an attack or a car fire, Renton trusted that it would work itself out.

  ***

  “How was your trip, Lady Gao?”

  Lady Gao smiled her enigmatic smile – the one she had inherited from her mother, along with a reputation for insight and careful action. Her family claimed descent from the Triad which gave the Black Sun its name, during the Russian merger, and her family still controlled a substantial portion of the Black Sun’s interests in southeast Asia.

  “Troublesome. The road to this place is in poor repair, Lady Martynova.”

  Anastasia nodded sympathetically. For security reasons, her guests were forced to apport to prearranged remote locations, where they were met by staff well outside of Harbin proper, and then driven the final fifty kilometers to the estate.

  “By design, I’m afraid. My staff prefer a thorough look at all our guests before arrival. You understand.”

  Lady Gao nodded in weary agreement.

  “Quite so, milady. A burden we all share in unsettled times.”

  “Your affairs in Hong Kong – I was informed you made the trip from Gansu. Did you resolve matters to your satisfaction?”

  The responsibilities placed on the Gao Cartel included the protection and maintenance of the Black Sun’s secretive research facilities, embedded within the PRC spaceport in the Gobi Desert for convenience and security, as well as more public manufacturing and fabrication plants in Hong Kong and Macau.

  “Oh, yes. I merely accompanied my husband on a visit to renew old contacts and acquaintances. The whole affair was greatly exaggerated, to be honest.”

  Lady Gao was not being honest, as they both knew. By the time the Gao family departed from Hong Kong, fourteen Operators and associates of the Black Sun, suspected of treason – or, at the very least, stupidity and greed – were summarily judged and executed. While Lord Gao was the physical instrument of their destruction, it was Lady Gao’s telepathic talents that facilitated his work. The diminishment of her role was a reflexive social nicety; a relic from her mother’s era that Anastasia despised, but tolerated out of necessity.