The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  “I do not encourage,” Mai said mildly. “I carry out my Mistress’s will.”

  “You are meant to urge her in the direction of propriety.”

  “She needs no such urging, my Lord. She is every bit the Lady her mother was.”

  The crowd gathered close in anticipation of Josef Martynova’s inevitable outburst, but instead he just shook his head and stood beside Mai, watching the dancers with a deflated air.

  “This won’t end well,” Josef grumbled. “It did not end well for her mother.”

  “That, my Lord,” Mai said, watching the dance, “is entirely a matter of opinion.”

  ***

  The final dance belonged to her father, and Anastasia went to him directly after the seventh, the floor clearing for her as she approached him. Anastasia smiled affectionately at her father, cheeks flushed with exertion, and then performed the deepest curtsy of the evening.

  Josef took one unsteady step forward, appeared to steel himself, and then gingerly took Anastasia’s hand and lifted her out of the curtsy.

  “Daughter,” he said, hoarse and moist-eyed. “Have you saved one final turn around the floor for your aged father?”

  “I have, my Lord,” Anastasia said, with a demure bob of her head. “Would you escort your daughter once more?”

  “With pride,” Josef said, choking up as he looked at her.

  The crowd applauded as the father and daughter took the floor, but neither seemed to notice. They stood in the center of the floor, facing each other, hand in hand, and made no move until the orchestra began to play.

  ***

  A maid quietly refilled Mai’s glass.

  “Are you satisfied with your efforts?”

  “Of course,” Mai said, twirling the bright green tea in the narrow flute as she watched the dancers. “Everyone is happy, aren’t they? That’s the important thing.”

  ***

  It took an hour for Anastasia to walk from the front door to the Lesser Hall, her feet and back aching, and her head spinning from social obligation. She faced a succession of greetings and gestures of fealty from the assembled crowd, those she knew intimately side-by-side with those she had never met in her adult life.

  She entered the Lesser Hall with evident relief, Donner and Blitzen taking up their positions at the door, one maid handling the train of her crimson dress, another holding her chair. Mai herself went to go check on the kitchen, to assure her supper was up to specifications.

  The setting was intimate, aside from the mute guards at either doorway, and another who roamed discretely along the balcony outside the windows. Anastasia sat on one side of the table, along with Pavel, her brother, his wife, Huian, and their daughter, Kirsten. On the opposite side of the table, Josef sat beside an empty chair, as per custom. Anastasia’s younger sisters, Molly and Diana, were on his other side, flanked by their mother. Filling out the space between were her uncle Petrov, Josef’s younger brother, recently returned from the endless Siberian conflict, and her uncle Shijun Jiang, her mother’s beloved older brother, back only last night from operations against the Weir in the Balkans. Shijun was conversing in a low voice with Avi Turner to his right, the Black Sun chief financier already drunk and boisterous. Her aunt by marriage, Nastya Martynova, Petrov’s wife, clenched a water glass and nodded miserably while Li Jiang, Shijun’s younger sister, discussed the advantages of the various bachelors, oblivious to her discomfort. Brannon Cree sat in a distant corner, providing telepathic white noise, while Svetlana and Timor waited nearby, in case of sudden need.

  The mood was one of exhausted happiness. The room had been redecorated for the occasion, with antique drapes and furnishings in the pale yellow color her mother loved, the table was set with china that had previously belonged to one Tsar or another, and the centerpiece was a slightly skewed ice sculpture of a swan, water dripping from its melting posterior. Anastasia would have preferred a wolf, like Donner or Blitzen, but some traditions proved more stubborn than others.

  A swan had been good enough for her mother, Anastasia supposed.

  Anastasia sat at a prepared chair, entwined with crimson linen and black ribbons, and sighed with relief.

  “Oh, my poor feet!” Anastasia switched to English, for Huian and Kirsten’s benefit, as they dined without telepathic intrusion. “A long, but enjoyable night, I think.”

  “Exactly the attitude,” her uncle Petrov roared, standing with glass in hand. “Youth should live life to the fullest. A toast!”

  Anastasia smiled tolerantly as her spirit glass was filled with water.

  “To the future Mistress of the Black Sun, Lady Martynova – and to the Martynova family!”

  The order of his toast was noted, with extremely muted approval or disapproval. Agreement was murmured, and drinks were sipped or drained, depending on the individual. Anastasia caught her uncle’s eyes, and gave him a grateful nod.

  “You were lovely out there, my dear,” Shijun said, leaning across Avi’s place setting to take her silk gloved hand. “You remind me of my sister so deeply. She would have been so proud of you, tonight and always.”

  Anastasia hesitated a moment, surprised and sincerely grateful.

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “I remember your mother’s debut. It was freezing in Moscow, but they held it there anyway, probably just to upset the old-timers…”

  Shijun continued to talk, and she kept her part, listening actively, while she assented to his covert telepathic prompt.

  Lady Martynova. Your father has made me aware of his plans.

  Please, uncle. It is still Anastasia, when we are in private. This is private?

  As private as I can manage, but we have little time. I must be brief, if you permit…

  I do, Uncle.

  Whatever you would do, Anastasia, you have my support. Regardless of whether Josef approves or not. Your mother’s terms should not have been violated, even if they buck tradition. If you wish to pick your partner in marriage, or force the issue of ascension, I will back you, for whatever it is worth.

  Uncle…thank you. I’m touched.

  Consider it a gift, for your debut, in honor of your mother – my sister – whom I loved, and her daughter – whom I love.

  I won’t forget this, Uncle Shijun.

  Indeed, please don’t! The casinos of Macau have not been kind to your poor uncle.

  “…in a dress just like that. The young lord went so red in the face, and then he stormed out directly after!” The group’s laughter was perfectly synced with their own, as Anastasia’s full awareness returned to the conversation at the table. “Of course, that cleared the way for Josef, who was never one to stand on propriety…”

  “I was drunk, Shijun, largely thanks to you,” Josef said, eyes misty with memory. “And she was beautiful – just like Anastasia. I would have been a fool not to ask her to dance.”

  “Yes, of course!” Petrov shouted kindly. “Tell your uncle, Ana – did any of the likely young men catch your eye tonight? Or do you prefer to make them fight it out in front of you?”

  “As a woman of virtue, I can say nothing of such matters,” Anastasia said, with a practiced flutter of her eyelids. “As a Martynova...well, they tried, I suppose.”

  Her family roared with laughter.

  “Spoken like her father’s daughter!” Petrov thrust his empty vodka glass in the air, to have it filled almost immediately by a waiting servant. “A toast!”

  Glasses were raised. Her uncle opened his mouth, and Anastasia braced for shouting.

  Activated by remote trigger, several kilos of Semtex swaddled in nails and ball bearings detonated inside of the frozen swan at the center of the table.

  ***

  Analytics woke the Director telepathically not long after she went to bed, downloading a poorly organized digest from the Auditor’s mole within the Black Sun. Rebecca pulled on a random sweater and jeans from off the floor, but was still bleary eyed and bed-headed when she arrived at Analytics. The staff f
roze when she entered, resuming movement slowly, reluctant to attract the Director’s attention.

  “You!” Rebecca pointed at the unfortunate telepath on duty – Emil Corso, an orphan in his second year of service – planted in front of three monitors and linked to his PC with a set of electrodes attached to his peach-fuzz head. “How bad is it?”

  “Director,” he stammered, fighting the urge to switch to his native French. “You refer to the situation in Harbin?”

  “Is that in China?”

  “Harbin?”

  “Yes, Director. In Manchuria, the site of the Black Sun....”

  “That’s it. How bad?”

  He hesitated, glancing at the shifting feed of imagery on one of his displays, then at the numeric display on its companion. Emil grimaced and licked his lips before continuing. The Director yawned and set her comb aside on one of the monitoring staff’s desks.

  “It…it is very bad, Director.”

  Rebecca made a face and scratched the side of her leg enthusiastically.

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “We believe this to be a high casualty event, Director. A large explosion was reported, and an equivalent seismological disturbance recorded by the nearby university…”

  “Huh.” Rebecca pointed at a pink box sitting on the reception counter. “These donuts?”

  Emil blinked sweat from his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Director?”

  “Are. These.” Rebecca tapped the pink box menacingly. “Donuts?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Good,” Rebecca flicked the box open and surveyed the contents grimly. “Anyone mind?”

  “Pardon? Ah…no. Not at all. We’ve all had…”

  Rebecca nodded and pinched her lower lip, lost in contemplation. An awed secretary dared to slide her a small paper plate and napkin, but the Director’s concentration remained total.

  “Coffee?”

  “Director?”

  Rebecca glanced at Emil, a tiny muscle beside her right eye twitching.

  “I need coffee,” the Director said calmly. “Do you have any coffee?”

  One of the braver Analysts nodded and hurried to the machine. Rebecca appeared to be placated by the gurgle and hiss of the coffee maker.

  “What sort of casualties are we talking about?”

  Emil stammered while the Director selected a bear claw from the box.

  “Ah, dozens, we believe, but we don’t have hard numbers…”

  “Who are the big ones?”

  “Pardon me, Director?”

  Am I not being clear? Let me be clear, then, Rebecca thought, biting into her donut. I need to know how many important people died in this explosion, before someone starts a war over one of them. The next thing anybody in this room says had better be exactly that information, to the best of your knowledge, okay? Because you’re all feeling super helpful, and I am not feeling very patient. Give me some names, Emil.

  Rebecca nodded gratefully as an Analyst handed her a hot pink mug of coffee.

  “The…uh, the bomb went off,” Emil managed, red in the face to the point of being alarming, “in the middle of a private dinner, attended by nearly every member of the Martynova family, along with close associates.”

  Rebecca swore in Spanish, while chewing.

  How many are dead?

  “We have not…we haven’t yet heard,” Emil offered tentatively, “of any survivors at all.”

  ***

  Three seconds before the explosion, Timor’s eyes widened in alarm. He was on the wrong side of the table to physically defend his principal, so he made a snap decision, no time to regret his failure. Timor cried out a warning to Anastasia as he tackled Huian, who was in the middle of breastfeeding Kirsten. He carried them along with their chair to the ground. Ignoring the baby’s wailing and Huian’s moan of pain as her ribs crunched beneath him, Timor activated the emergency telepathic channel.

  Ana! Timor cried out. Get out!

  There was no opportunity for explanation. The time left before detonation was fractional.

  Ana snatched Diana from Lady Gao’s knees, wrapping her sister in her skirts as she reached for her father’s hand, Josef’s eyes dull and uncomprehending…

  Renton grabbed Molly from the table where she sat and dove to the floor, putting his body between her and what was coming…

  Sveta took the hands of the guests on either side of her – Shijun Jiang, and Avi Turner – and then disappeared…

  The swan exploded, the ice vaporizing instantly in the terrific heat of the chemical reaction.

  The blast wave expanded rapidly, tearing through the Lesser Hall, and Timor went limp and quiet, Huian and Kirsten crushed beneath him.

  The ancient building groaned, the floor buckled, and the near wall gave way with a shower of brick and broken masonry, filling the room with a choking white cloud of dust. Every exposed surface was pelted with a shower of accelerated metal projectiles, kilos of ball bearings reducing the table to splinters, and doing the same to the guests who sought shelter beneath it. The force of the blast knocked everyone to the ground, and then battered them with debris. Renton struggled not to crush the panicking child pinned below him, arms and neck straining against the invisible force and searing heat.

  Deafened by the explosion, it took Renton several seconds to realize that the danger had passed. He tried to stand, only to be stopped by agonizing pain in his back. The world was white with dust, only Molly’s crying, tear-streaked face visible, her mouth opened in a soundless wail. He tried again to move, and again the pain in his lower back brought him to a halt.

  Casting about blindly with his arm, he discovered the reason – a pair of nails, one embedded deep in the muscle of his right shoulder blade, and another lodged beside his spine to the left.

  It took an unpleasant moment to remove the nail nearest to his spine. It protruded further than the others, and he could get a grip on the head of the nail enough to pry it out. The nail in his shoulder was deeper in the tissue, so after several attempts, Renton left it where it was, and turned his attention to more important matters.

  Battling disorientation and the stabbing pain in his back, Renton stood slowly, with the wide-legged stance of a defeated boxer. The room was chaos, and Renton sought his Mistress at the heart of it.

  It was strangely easy to be professional. There was no other capacity under which he could deal with the carnage amongst familiar faces, perhaps, but if the disconnect was a conceit, then it was a useful conceit.

  Renton tore through the debris and pushed aside wounded survivors until he found Anastasia, surrounded by the wreckage of the table and splattered with blood, Diana held tightly in her arms. Mai appeared at his side, and helped him free the Mistress of the Black Sun from the wreckage, and to pry the weeping child from her arms. One of Anastasia’s pet Weir limped over to nudge her feet, while the other whined softly beneath the broken table, spared at least the fragmentation by the bulk of the wood.

  “Ana! Are you okay?”

  “Milady?”

  She made no response. Renton gave her a quick once over. There was a great deal of blood, but none of it appeared to belong to Anastasia. He saw no obvious injury or damage, so Renton squeezed his Mistress’s hand, and left her to Mai for nursing.

  Renton turned his attention back to triage, working down his priority list. Guards burst into the Lesser Hall, and were dispatched to seek medical support and secure the estate.

  Timor lay motionless beside Huian, several nails embedded in her arm and shoulder as she made panicked gasps for air. Pavel lay not far from his struggling wife, unconscious and bleeding from an ugly head wound, one of his eye sockets caved by a ball bearing. Kirsten screamed at the top of her lungs in a maid’s arms, a nail stuck in her belly, a medical tech frantically trying to retrieve the infant from the concussed bodyguard. Renton flooded their minds with all the comfort he could summon, and then directed the arriving paramedics to begin triage, based on cartel importance. Most
made a beeline for the old man, but the second wave started work on Huian.

  Renton came to the aid of Shijun’s wife, Leanne, who was weaving and delirious, wounded in the chest and leg, but, miraculously spared the worst of the explosion. Petrov Martynova had not been as lucky, a nail lodged in his skull, bleeding out while EMTs struggled to stabilize him. His wife Nastya was little better, her body shattered by the blast wave and then hurled against the far wall. Anastasia’s stepmother was receiving the attentions of another pair of paramedics, staring at the stump of her missing arm in obvious shock.

  The old man had gotten the worst of it. Medical personnel hovered around Josef Martynova’s body, uncertain where to start treating his numerous fatal injuries.

  Anastasia recovered sufficiently to throw herself across her father’s body, weeping into his chest and tearing her hair, preventing the paramedics from doing their work. After a suitable delay, Renton pried her away gently, with help from a bleeding maid, so the medics could offer aid, but it was obvious to everyone that it was a fool’s errand. Hit with the full force of the blast wave and then sprayed with bearings and nails, Josef was perforated and broken, his body rendered unrecognizable by massive trauma.

  Renton managed to hold Anastasia back, saying vaguely comforting things that he forgot immediately, until the family doctor shook his head. Then Anastasia stepped through his arms like a ghost and threw herself again across her dead father, wailing and keening.

  ***

  Gaul Thule put aside his fountain pen with a frown, leaving the pen neatly perpendicular to the document he had been annotating. He straightened his jacket, tightened the knot of his tie, and cleared his throat.

  The room was suddenly crowded with Operators wearing field gear and reeking of dried sweat and burnt carbon. Lóa Thule stood at the head of the group, Mateo Navarre hovering over her left shoulder, while Courtney Lede and Mohammed Omar hung back respectfully.

  “Well?” Gaul was impatient, asking the question before a word could be said. “How did it go?”