“Fuck me, what a day,” Katya murmured, checking her canteen and finding it empty. “What do you want with us, Witch?”
“Is that any way to say thank you?” Yaga wondered, looking amazed at Katya’s grimy effrontery. “You do realize that I just saved you from the Yaojing.”
“You must’ve had your reasons,” Katya said with a shrug, trying very hard not to scratch her numerous itches. “Witches aren’t known for charity. What do you want?”
“How ungrateful,” Yaga sniffed. “But very well. You may call me Yaga, if you like.”
“I don’t want to call you anything.”
“I just saved you, wretched child. You could at least be civil,” Yaga complained. “I did not act out of altruism, however, so I suppose you could hold that against me. My employer sent me to retrieve you.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Katya acknowledged, rubbing the tired skin beneath her eyes. “Who do you work for? I thought all Witches shared the same mind, like ants. How can you have a boss?”
“Thanks to your gentle friends in Central, I am no longer a part of my sisters, and they are free of me.” Yaga laughed, and Katya bit back a snarl. “I will return you to Central, child, along with your companions. You should be grateful. There are few capable of journeying so far into the Outer Dark, and even fewer capable of making a return.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m impressed, no doubt. I bet you could probably get us back to Central, too. But we aren’t going.”
The Witch laughed at her.
“You know,” Katya said, voice tight, color rising in her cheeks. “People have been pushing me around a lot, lately. Getting kinda tired of taking everybody’s shit. I was gonna try and not be a bitch about this, since you did bail us out, but…”
“Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself, child. You are a chore to me, and nothing more.”
“I’m not fucking around,” Katya insisted, walking toward the Witch, shaking out her hands. “We aren’t going.”
“How will stop me?” The Witch took something from a pocket that looked like an egg of cloudy amethyst, the surface rippling with carved insignia, and rolled it in her palm. “I salute your bravery, child, but we are on entirely different levels. You cannot…”
“I’m going to stop you there,” Katya said. “You see, it’s a little awkward, but I’ve got a…let’s call her a contact. Back in Central. She’s a moron, and works for the wrong side, but she can be helpful. While we were talking here, she’s told me all about you.”
“Hayley Weathers?” Yaga looked amused. “Yes, I sensed the conversation. I deemed your talk harmless and allowed it, as a sign of goodwill.”
“That was dumb,” Katya said, with a sneer. “You’re gonna be sorry. I’m going to make you sorry.”
Yaga sniffed.
“This is bothersome,” she said, crushing the egg to powder in her hand. “I will transport you back to your…”
The witch seized up like a frozen image on a monitor, and then toppled over like a felled tree. She sucked in air, as if to scream, but produced little more than a whimper.
“Hayley told me about the implant in your head, how you figured out a way to override and break contact with Central.” Katya rolled the Witch over with her foot. “Must’ve been careful work, because the technicians claim it was designed to activate from even the slightest tampering. Hayley and I figured that the implant might still be there, in your head, and if so, it might start working again, if somebody messed around with it. Maybe pulled out the regulator they marked in the diagram, back at the Academy.”
Katya held up a tiny pink object pinched between her fingers, wet and shimmering and about the size of a drop of water.
“This is…well, at least I hope this is the regulator.” Katya frowned at the convulsing Witch. “Downside, the implant is kinda broken, now. Active all the time. It won’t kill you, my understanding, but it must hurt.” Katya nudged the witch with the toe of her shoe, watching her drool and convulse uneasily. “It always will, in theory. The upside…is the same as the downside, actually. A Witch is a Witch, right?”
Yaga suffered, flopping about like a hooked fish, and Katya lingered.
“Oh, fuck.” Katya walked over to her rucksack, and dug through it. She returned with a bulky old pistol, a 1911 with a faux ivory grip worn to the nubs. Sighing, she checked the magazine, chambered a round, and put the muzzle to Yaga’s chest. “I can’t do the head, okay? The implant. For all I know…yeah. Can’t trust you. But I can’t just leave you to…”
The witch moaned like wind escaping sunbaked earth, and Katya shuddered.
“I can do the heart,” Katya whispered. “I don’t know how Witches work, but I figure six hollow-points in the chest is about as universally fatal as anything. Better than eternity of this, right?”
The Witch shuddered and drooled helplessly, and Katya grimaced.
“Yeah. The world is ugly enough.”
Katya pulled the trigger once, a pained expression on her face; then five times more in rapid succession.
Twenty-One
Transporters were in short supply, after Anastasia’s announcement. Renton took a nap while he waited, in a curtained alcove that Mai helpfully provided. The apport technician who eventually became available was an effeminate Chinese man with an Australian accent who never stopped rubbing his temples, and his work was not the best. Renton’s insides shifted more than a centimeter on arrival, the contents of his stomach lurching unpleasantly.
The car and the man he had sent ahead, at least, were waiting. The driver saw him coming and ditched his cigarette into the street, hurrying around to open the rear door of the vintage BMW, leather gloves tastefully matching the car’s immaculate interior. The driver nodded politely, but read Renton’s mood and said nothing. The driver shut the door behind him, and in that space, Renton closed his eyes, giving himself a few seconds to acknowledge his fatigue. Then he pushed his exhaustion aside, aided by a self-implanted telepathic suggestion that would keep him awake and twitchy for another six hours.
“Where to, sir?”
The driver’s eyes watched him politely through the rearview mirror. They held the approximate warmth of an ice floe. His accent hinted at a Central American origin by route of Texas, and his teeth were banded by a transparent retainer. The tattoos on the back of his neck and above his eyes had been removed, the skin creased with laser scars, but the ones on the backs of his hands were still there, crude and bold. He was shaved bald, wore earrings in both ears, appeared to be in his mid-thirties and to take an interest in weightlifting, judging by the circumference of his neck.
Buzzed on telepathic stimulants, Renton decided to be sociable.
“You’re the one from this morning, Josef’s guard. What’s your name again?”
“Naciento Rivera,” the driver answered, risking another deferential glance at his passenger.
The name had more resonance this time for Renton, provoking a grin.
“But people call you…?”
“Nero,” the driver said, with a tentative grin. “Do we know each other, sir?”
“You know an old friend of mine,” Renton explained. “Katya Zharovaya.”
“You know Katya?” Nero grinned. “That’s my girl, right there. How is she, sir?”
Renton was not surprised to learn that Anastasia had kept the situation quiet. Even Renton was unsure where that matter stood, at present, though he was loath to admit as much.
“I’m not sure,” Renton said. “Probably working.”
“Then she’s good,” Nero said, with assurance. “Katya’s elite.”
Renton nodded his reluctant agreement.
“I assume that you were briefed?”
“Yes, sir.” Nero’s eyes narrowed. “Driving, close protection. Heavy stuff on your order.”
“Good. You feel up for that?”
“Very much so, sir.”
“Okay, Nero. Want to do some work?”
Nero’s dental work
shone like the sun off his head. A set of bridges served as anchors for a full front set of gold teeth, top and bottom, kept clean and polished.
“Any time, sir.”
Renton wanted to laugh, but contented himself with a smile.
“You have a particular hotel in mind, or Vegas in general?”
The question hung in the air, while Renton made a subtle check. Without the capacity for empathy, there was no way to measure the genuineness of Nero’s loyalty, but a telepathic scan showed no apparent deception or scheme. Again, Renton wanted to laugh. The paranoia of the times was starting to infect him.
“Black Sun facility in the northern suburbs. Raided by party’s unknown in the recent past,” Renton said, setting up a quick trigger-release implant in Nero’s mind. “When you get to the right exit, you’ll know it.”
“Yes sir.”
The car made no noise whatsoever, starting up, but Renton felt a slight vibration through the stitched leather seats. The wheels spun and spat out gravel, and then they were on the road, heading for the highway. Renton closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest, not at all tired, weighing options. This was not the sort of thing he had ever imagined himself doing, but Renton was adaptable, in very specific ways.
What was it Mai had said to him?
Something about finding himself in service?
Suddenly, the idea intrigued Renton.
***
They were made to wait. It was a calculated slight, which the Director bore with considerably more grace than the Chief Auditor, who paced the halls and antagonized the cartel security. The delay was entirely symbolic – designed to remind both women that their authority did not extend to the private empire of the Black Sun Cartel. When Anastasia’s stone-faced lady’s maid finally opened the door to admit them to their audience, Rebecca was annoyed and Alice was furious.
“Director, Chief Auditor.” The maid performed a perfunctory bow. “This way, please.”
Rebecca strode by her without a word, while Alice invaded her personal space, daring the maid to react.
The room was darkened on the other side, antique armor and old oil paintings reflecting smeared candlelight. Anastasia was hardly visible, thoroughly dwarfed by her father’s venerable desk and leather-cushioned chair. On one side of the desk, near the vacant fireplace, a bandaged Weir slept on the cool brick, while another more intact beast lounged about near her feet, watching them warily.
Rebecca took the seat across from Anastasia without asking, while Alice stood just behind the Director, doing her best not to smile.
“Lady Martynova,” Rebecca said stiffly, “my condolences on your family’s tragedy.”
“Thank you.” Anastasia’s face bore no trace of emotion, her vocal inflection implying a superior sort of boredom. “Is that all?”
Rebecca grimaced and reached for her pack of cigarette by long-established habit, briefly forgetting that Anastasia forbid all smoking in her presence, and somehow possessed the backbone to enforce that edict, even on the Director of the Academy.
“No! Of course not,” Rebecca said wearily. “I understand that you have refused right of admission and investigation to the Auditors. Are you certain you wish…?”
“The attack on my family is a private cartel matter,” Anastasia cut in. “It will be handled entirely as such.”
“Sure, sure.” Alice reached over Rebecca’s shoulder and laid her palm on Anastasia’s desk with a conspiratorial smile. “It never hurts to let me look around a little, though.”
Anastasia looked at Alice’s hand resting on the desk like it was a personal affront.
“We would of course share any information we glean,” Rebecca assured her hurriedly, “and will turn the case over to our best analysts, to determine method and responsibility…”
“The method was a block of C-4 surrounded with metal fragments,” Anastasia explained, opening one of her desk drawers and taking something from it. “Here,” she said, tossing the object to Alice, who caught the bent and stained nail in midflight. “This nail was removed from the abdomen of my infant niece.”
Alice grinned and then dropped the nail back on to the desk, letting it clang off the surface.
“Regarding responsibility,” Anastasia said, watching Alice narrowly, “an attribution was easily made. Your predecessor, Director Levy. Gaul Thule, along with key elements of his familial cartel, bears the responsibility for this outrage.”
Rebecca and Alice shared a quick look. Alice shrugged.
“That’s an interesting theory.” Rebecca toyed with her cigarette packet. “What makes you so certain, Lady Martynova?”
Anastasia nodded to the taciturn maid in the plain black dress, who gracefully reemerged from the shadows.
“Mai, would you have the Analytical pool produce an incident summary for the Director?” The maid nodded gravely. “Tea for our guests as well, I suppose.”
“Not needed, thank you,” Rebecca said hurriedly. “As for…”
“I’m kinda thirsty,” Alice said, sitting with deliberate slowness in a vacant chair. “Actually.”
“Fine,” Rebecca snapped, glaring at her Chief. “As to the evidence, Lady Martynova…”
“Etheric Signatures, probability matrices, DNA evidence, post-incident observations and intelligence.” Anastasia ticked points off on her fingers and sounded terminally disinterested. “Oh yes; we have brought in a handful of Thule Cartel personnel in for questioning. They have been universally eager to confirm our suspicions.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” Rebecca said, with a little cough. “The Hegemony made a complaint this morning.”
“Oh?” Anastasia turned her attention back to the tablet she had been using before they arrived. “What troubles them?”
“You snatched Darcy Nance and Peter Svilet-Thule off the streets of Belgium, where they were working on a cartel-neutral trading platform,” Alice said, looking like she was telling the setup to a particularly amusing joke. “Kris Vundt you took off a cruise he was attending with his family, to celebrate the birth of his zero-potential granddaughter. That’s against cartel bylaws, grabbing neutral personnel.”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” Rebecca cut in. “Look, Anastasia…”
Anastasia glanced at the Director with an expression of mild distaste.
“…Lady Martynova, I mean. I feel for you. I really do.” Rebecca put empathic authority behind her words, wishing she could directly interface with Anastasia, if only to restore trust. “My family was caught up in a bombing, when I was a child, and I’ve never forgotten how horrible…”
Rebecca thought she felt something for a moment, just a flicker from deep within the psychic void that Anastasia represented, but it was gone just as fast, leaving the Director uncertain as to whether the perception was an artifact of her own empathy, fabricating emotional connections were none could be forged.
“The Jewish Center bombings in Argentina,” Anastasia said, pinching her lip. “My sympathies, Director.”
“I was trying to say that I…”
“Is there something I can do for you?” Anastasia asked, with a light shading of impatience. “Or, is this a personal visit?”
“Personal or not,” Alice said jovially, tapping her nails on the polished desk. “That part’s up to you, kiddo.”
“I will remind you, Chief Auditor, of my provisional station. I am not simply the leader of the Martynova Family, I am also the acting head of the Black Sun,” Anastasia said icily. “The office belonged to my father before me, and I will see it given the proper respect.”
Alice just grinned.
“Your family was attacked, and you’ve lost loved ones,” Rebecca interjected, pitching her voice to be sympathetic. “I have some idea of the pain you are going through, Lady Martynova. I remember how badly I wanted revenge, against those who hurt me and my family.”
“Not in the slightest,” Anastasia said, with a shake of her hea
d. Rebecca was stunned to notice that she had cut her hair to roughly neck length. “I have no interest in revenge, Director. This is more properly an accounting – if Ms. Gallow here will forgive me usage of the term.”
“I’m not the forgiving type,” Alice said joyfully. “But you go ahead anyway.”
“The détente with the Hegemony was predicated on certain understandings,” Anastasia said. “These understandings have been grossly violated. A response, in greater measure, is both required and anticipated.”
“Listen Anastasia,” Rebecca said, face creased with concern. “I get what you’re going through, and the position that you are in. But we both know that war isn’t good for anyone…”
“Do we know that?” Anastasia appeared to consider the possibility. “Perhaps that judgement is hasty.”
“…the Black Sun included. What you’ve lost already is devastating, but an open fight between the Hegemony and the Black Sun will lead to greater death and horror. You don’t want that, Ana. You cannot.”
“Can I truly not?” Anastasia mused. “Josef Martynova is dead, Director Levy.”
“I understand that.” Rebecca pushed empathic feelers toward the emotional void at the other side of the desk, but Anastasia was as absent as always. “What you need to understand, however, Lady Martynova, is this war will only make everything worse. Your sisters, your nieces, your friends, your whole cartel – you stand to lose everything in a conflict like this.”
“That is very well understood, Director,” Anastasia countered. “The whole of the Black Sun is clear in its intent and purpose. We are prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of our shared honor, and to honor our fallen.”
“Honor only has meaning to the living,” Rebecca said. “These are petty concerns to occupy the mind of a woman with the fate of the whole of the Black Sun Cartel resting on her shoulders.”
“You came to say something, Director,” Anastasia answered. “Say it, and then leave me be.”
“Allow the Auditors to handle this matter,” Rebecca said, clear-eyed and insistent. “If you want a reckoning, Anastasia, I’m prepared to promise one. My Auditors will investigate the incident, and see those responsible for breaking the peace punished fittingly. Regardless of station, family, or,” Rebecca winced, “previous association with the Academy, those found responsible for the attack on your family will be brought to account. By the Auditors, under the terms of the Agreement to which you and your cartel are still party, regardless of what has happened.”
The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4) Page 48