by Alex Archer
“You’ve killed babies!”
“How dare you throw that accusation at me.”
“I read the files.”
“The subjects died naturally after successful births.”
“Naturally? They died because of genetic defects you introduced through your incomplete and fallible cloning process. And what of the mothers who gave birth to those unfortunate babies you’ve documented in your files? Where are they?”
Lambert lifted his chin, silent in his crime.
“Dead?” she asked.
“Never.”
“Were they aware of what their bodies were being used for? The woman I followed as she left here the other day—she’s pregnant. She believes this a fertility clinic. She has no idea, has she?”
“I’ve had enough of your accusations. You’ve got the musketeer’s sword. Keep it and be happy for your treasure.”
Annja blew out a frustrated breath and toed the divided pieces of the box cover.
“It’s interesting, one man’s notion of treasure, isn’t it?” she said. “I hold little value in sparkling gemstones or piles of smartly stacked hundred-dollar bills. I do value an intangible history and verifying its truth. And while I may never consider myself maternal material, I do hold great value in a child. Why do you label such a treasure garbage? Because that’s what you do with your research.”
Lambert made his move. Annja bent her knees slightly, prepared to defend, but cautious.
The man went for an épée on the wall, brandishing it in a sweeping display before him as he approached her. Emeralds fixed to the hilt captured the minute spotlight and flashed green fire.
Annja backed up until her shoulders hit the wall.
“I’ve got my eye on a new treasure,” he announced.
The épée swept the air in a hiss.
“It is another sword. A magical one.”
“You believe in magic?” she countered.
“I believe what I saw when I watched you in the file room on the security cameras. You wielded a fine sword, Annja Creed. And you produced it from thin air. Do you deny I’ve got a recording of you fighting off my man with a sword?”
“Who can deny videotape?” she snapped.
“Where is it?” He approached, the blade held down and to the outside at octave, not threatening, but with a flick of his exposed wrist, it could be. “Bring it out of wherever it is you keep it. I want to see it.”
She remained silent. Alert. Ready.
“I know something about you,” he said in a singsongy tone. “Your Monsieur Roux wasn’t quite so careful as he should have been. Did you know about his visit to BHDC? He was most secretive.”
“I know Roux was here,” she said.
Well, she did now. Roux had come here? What was the old man up to now? She didn’t like what he implied, because Annja could guess at but a few options if it involved Roux and Lambert’s knowledge of the sword.
“Monsieur Roux brought along a piece of chain mail which he claimed was once Joan of Arc’s. Ah, you find that intriguing, yes, as I did. Threaded within the chain links were four hair strands. Viable DNA evidence. My geneticist was able to extract DNA and sequence the entire genome.”
“You’re going to clone Joan of Arc?” Annja was stunned.
“We’ll certainly give it a shot.”
“But if the mind and the personality cannot be re-created, what is the purpose to having a child that resembles someone no one can recognize?” she asked.
“It is the idea of having a child with Joan of Arc’s DNA. Trust me, there are people who will pay a ridiculous amount to make such a claim.”
“Doesn’t sound like people who have the right to be parents.”
“Now you are judging, Annja.”
He tilted his wrist and brought up the blade beneath Annja’s chin. The tip did not touch flesh, but at the moment she wasn’t actually concerned about injury.
“Roux also brought along what he referred to as a modern sample. A strand of hair that one must label—” the blade swept to the side to lift the ends of Annja’s hair “—chestnut.”
Her heart falling in her chest, Annja struggled to keep her expression neutral.
“He wanted me to match the DNA to markers in the historical sample. Answer the question of maternal relation. My geneticist matched mitochondrial DNA against dozens of genetic markers.” Lambert tilted a foul blue gaze upon her. “I have the results, Annja. I will give them to you in exchange for your magical sword.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Lambert. Why would you—?”
“Because I’ve done my research on your Roux and Joan. I know, Annja, I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“I will have the sword.” He swung the blade.
Annja reacted, calling up her sword and meeting the oncoming blade with a clang that sent a shudder through her wrist and up her forearm.
Lambert smiled between their crossed blades. “Touché.”
26
“You’re not going to kill me, Annja, I know that.”
“How can you be so sure? You know I had to dispatch the goon in the tunnel.”
“Yes, but I’ve done nothing to warrant such punishment.”
“You’ve done plenty against mankind.”
“Such a statement merely proves your ignorance.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to sway from your stance, as deluded as it may be. But it’s not my place to decide your punishment, Lambert. A jury of your peers should do nicely.”
“No jury will convict me. The genetic cloning laws are so vague right now. And no one really understands the whole working process. A jury could not properly rule against something a mere high school education would never allow them to understand.”
He feinted to the right, and then managed a stab to Annja’s upper left thigh. She dodged but felt the burn of the blade through her jeans to slice flesh. The man was fast, and knew how to handle a weapon.
Annja backed over the fallen door and into the hallway. Smoke lingered at the end where she had previously gone on to explore the third floor. The air smelled sulfurous.
“What evidence are you destroying?” she said as she lunged to parry a thrust intended for her shoulder. Her sword wasn’t meant for delicate fencing moves. Slashing and hacking was most fitting. “The files I looked over the other day? A laboratory that contains embryos waiting for implant in an unsuspecting female’s womb?”
“I’ll never tell.”
A twist of her wrist brought her sword blade diagonally before her thighs, blocking Lambert’s attempt to draw blood.
Annja’s shoulder hit the door and she jumped away from it. The contact stung. It was hot as a stove burner. Only a fool would attempt to open it and go through.
Evidence was going up in smoke. Her best bet? To incapacitate Lambert and call the fire station. The sooner the fire could be put out, the better the chances of saving the incriminating data and files.
But the man would not be put back. He continued to advance upon her, a crooked grin revealing a narrow row of bright teeth.
Their blades clattered. Annja found she really had to concentrate on the fencing skills Roux had taught her, to match her opponent’s every move. No slashing or hacking this time. She would not simply run him through. This man needed to answer for his crimes.
“You’re quite skilled, Mademoiselle Creed.”
“I’ve studied sixteenth-and seventeenth-century masters.”
“That explains your neglect of proper form. I was fencing champion of 1985, junior division.”
“Good for you.” He thought her form lacking? Had she a proper foil, that would change. It mattered little. “What steered you toward evil?”
“There you go again. Judging!” In proof of his championship status, he lunged gracefully, blade tip coming under Annja’s chin. She hadn’t anticipated that move. “How much for the sword? I must have it,” he said.
A flick of her wrist—her sword’s
quillon sliding along his blade—swept his threat away. “Impossible.”
“It is Joan of Arc’s sword.”
That hadn’t been a question.
Annja swept low, but her opponent deftly leaped from harm’s way. He made a gleeful dash down the hallway toward the reception area where she’d entered through the damaged door.
“Your brother wouldn’t have wanted you to harm more children!” she called after him.
“You never knew Evil Gentleman Tobias!” he called out in something resembling a wicked sneer. Or perhaps a delusional pirate’s cackle.
Arriving at the reception area, Annja took a moment to draw in a breath as Lambert paced between the desk and the front doorway, which was still ajar. They both needed a breather. Clear air wasn’t on the menu. Smoke flooded the hallway in their wake. Annja could taste the smoke on her palate.
“I know things about you, Annja.” Lambert tapped the air with his sword blade. “As well, your Monsieur Roux believes certain things about you. I did some research on the man.”
“On Roux? He’s an enigma. It’s not like he’s got a Web site or a presence on the Internet.”
“But there is a notation about him in the history books. Fifteenth century.”
With a forced chuckle she tasted the gritty murk of smoke. “He’s an old man, but he’s not immortal.”
“I disagree, and you know I’m right.” Lambert paced the reception floor, behind the glass-topped coffee table lined with magazines. He circled the air before him with the sword tip. “One must have an open mind to study science, Annja.”
“Scientists are infamous skeptics.”
“Then I am not the norm.”
He could say that again.
“I’ve spent the better part of a day searching historical texts on Joan of Arc, and discovered a small notation on a soldier who traveled in her retinue. Rumors told he was also a wizard. I guess that wizard was your Roux.”
“Roux’s no wizard,” Annja said.
“Perhaps not in the sense that we’ve come to associate with magical spells and wands. And yet, when there’s a magical sword involved, one tends to err on the side of the possible. Roux was supposed to be Joan of Arc’s protector. He obviously failed. The man witnessed Joan burn at the stake outside Rouen.
“Now, who do you think might have taken something of her person away with him? A man who felt guilt at not being able to save the one woman he had chosen to protect? A man who wanted to make things right? And what could he take? A soldier would eye a sword,” Lambert said.
“I’m sure all her possessions were confiscated by the Inquisition. It would have been impossible for a mere soldier to lay claim to anything the martyr once owned,” Annja said.
“Yes, a martyr. Like you, Annja? Do you battle evil for the forces of the good?” He swung up his blade, catching Annja’s sword close to the hilt. It was a powerful hit, but Annja worked through the blow by extending her hand upward. “I confess I came up short when researching your history. The television Web site provides the standard bio and educational background in New Orleans, but as for the real history, such as parents and place of birth? You remain an enigma, Annja.”
“A girl’s gotta keep some mystery about her.”
“Yes, you believe that all you want, Annja. The greater mystery lies in the sword, though. Explain how it works,” Lambert challenged. “Do you speak to some higher power as Joan once claimed to speak to God?”
“Get over yourself, Lambert. You’re barking up the wrong tree. There’s no such thing as wizards, let alone a magical sword.”
They crossed blades and drew up close. Devastating madness flickered in Lambert’s blue eyes. Annja genuinely feared her opponent, not for his prowess with the blade, but for the demented ideals he sought to protect. And for the damning knowledge he’d put together about her and the sword.
“It is her sword,” he said in a tone touching admonishment. “And I’m guessing it chose you. How else to explain it magically appearing and disappearing when you will it?”
“I don’t believe in magic,” Annja said.
“Nor do I. But I do believe in destiny.”
Destiny. A word that had taken on new meaning in Annja’s life since taking Joan of Arc’s sword to hand. Now she believed in things that she would have never given a second thought to previously.
How dare she question another man’s destiny?
“My brother’s death set me on this pirate’s life,” Lambert continued. “It is my destiny to cure the sick. To give them new life. Just as you were destined to gain Joan of Arc’s sword. To fight opposition with it. Did the wizard gift it to you?”
He was still guessing. But he was right on the money. How could he speak so confidently of something even she did not have all the answers for?
Lowering his blade, Lambert reached out with his free hand. “Just let me…touch it.”
“Gladly.” She drew back and made to deliver a direct hit to his forearm, hoping to disarm him, but sight of black smoke clouds billowing into the room stopped the action. “Your fire is no longer contained! Get out!” she shouted.
Lambert twisted and a gush of thick smoke enveloped his head. Smoke spewed down the hallway in rolling waves. The man gagged and choked. Annja bent low and lunged to grab him by the waist. He punched her head with his right hand, the sword hilt making the blow all the harder.
Struggling against the woozy pull that wanted to black out her consciousness, Annja wobbled. If she blacked out, he’d leave her behind to burn.
How must death by fire feel? To have stood before the non-believers and to have prayed to a God that would no longer listen. To be so young, and to be punished for following the only path that had been clear to her.
And to know her protector, Roux, had not been there for her. Had she felt helpless? Or had her faith made her fearless when it was most needed?
What do I have faith in? Annja wondered fleetingly. The sword? My ability to win against evil? Myself?
She gasped, but that was the wrong thing to do, for opening her mouth drew in more smoke.
Did the lungs fill with smoke and choke the victim unconscious before the flames burned through flesh? Or did a victim suffer the horror of feeling their flesh melt from bone, fully conscious?
Thoughts of such an agonizing death cleared Annja’s brain. This fire would not take her down.
She managed to swing around and fling Lambert toward the door, still ajar from her entrance. He took the hint and slipped outside.
Head still pounding from the hit, Annja scrambled across the marble floor, coughing on the thick smoke. The rubber boots gave her traction. She made her escape right behind Lambert.
Neon curls from bars and distant restaurants edged the night. To her left, the Eiffel Tower twinkled, its peak jutting out in the distance. The rush of cars gliding by on the nearby périphérique sounded like ocean waves.
Fire crept behind her. Smoke filled Annja’s nostrils. She rushed away from the building and into the center of the street where Lambert stood coughing, bent over at the waist. Breathing deeply, she filled her lungs with fresh air.
Could she ever purge the nightmares? To be consumed by fire…
“Is it that you cannot control it?” Lambert called. “If you let go of the hilt is it gone?”
Annja hadn’t realized she’d released the sword to the otherwhere. It had become an intuitive part of her. When needed, it arrived, ready. When not, it slipped away.
No sword can protect you from the accusing flame.
Biting back a scream, she shook the nightmarish cries of her predecessor away.
“Tell me how it works, Annja. I must know!”
“Stop trying to figure out something even I don’t completely understand.”
He strode over to her, épée to hand, but not threatening. “Yet you can call it into existence whenever you wish.”
“That is as it appears.” She had no sense to keep her secrets right now. Smoke coiled i
n her lungs and dizzied her brain.
“You are quite accomplished. You control it well,” he said.
“As you seek to control life?”
“It is not so simple as you define it, Annja.”
“It appears that simple.”
The shrill of police sirens alerted them both. Far off, but the alarm grew closer. She hadn’t alerted the authorities. Had Roux? Or maybe Ascher had guessed her destination.
“Points for you, Annja Creed.” Lambert offered a surrendering bow and then pointed his épée over her head. “Pity. All documentation of wrong-doings will be lost.”
The fire had begun to rage on the roof. The ground floor, still dark and silent, spewed out smoke like a monster furnace.
“So you admit that what you’ve done is wrong?” She spun to face Lambert, who kept a keen eye down the street for the oncoming police cavalcade. “Why would you destroy your research?”
“I would be a fool not to keep backups and copies,” he said.
“You could do a good thing if only you’d focus on what is right.”
“Your right is my obstacle, Annja. I cannot work miracles if I am forced to ridiculous parameters by lawmakers who have no knowledge of genetic cloning.”
He approached cautiously, head bowed and épée tracing the ground. A smear of soot brushed his cheek. “The evidence to your secret is going up in flames as we speak. Roux was keenly interested. I wonder should I reveal the findings to him?”
“Without proof, nothing can be believed of you, Lambert. You’re a liar and a thief and a—”
“A pirate?”
“Yes. A biopirate.”
“I like the sound of that.”
She hadn’t meant to fuel his demented fire.
“You think you have defeated me?” He chuckled. A snap of his wrist thrust his weapon to en garde.