by T. K. Toppin
They had touched each other hesitantly at first, exploring with mouths and hands, shy and reserved. Talking softly, laughing sometimes, until passion consumed them so much they forgot how to speak. And when he finally made contact, he thought he would explode into a ball of flames. He couldn’t move for fear he might ignite, and her soft body beneath writhing in an agony of pleasure didn’t help matters at all. When she finally erupted in spasms, he joined her and died. The world turned into myriad brilliant colors, and the aching pain he’d felt for so long was finally unleashed and spent. He remembered collapsing in a heap, wondering if it was his heart or hers that banged like a bass drum against his chest. Later, much later, when they made love again, it was slow and gentle. John had forgotten who he was, where he was. And he didn’t care; he wanted nothing more than to be with her forever. Just being near her made him feel better. Whole.
Drugged by the memory and unable to resist, John slipped back into bed and listened to Josie’s soft, even breathing. He understood now why he’d been so cautious, so picky with women. He’d been waiting for her. All his life, everything he had or hadn’t done, was because of her. Josie. Only for her. And, at last, she’d come and his world felt right. Whatever turmoil he’d suffered, or whatever triumph he’d enjoyed, it was all because of her. It made no sense, but because of her, she made it all somehow feel right to him. She calmed him, and at the same time fired him with fury and passion; she was his reason for living, for being who he was, for what he was going to become. Without her, he’d be nothing. She made him John Lancaster, the man who loved her more than he loved himself.
As if sensing him, Josie stirred and rolled onto her back. He kissed her forehead gently. “Go back to sleep. It’s too early.”
“Wrr-you-goin?” Sleep slurred her words; her eyes still glued shut.
Her scent was everywhere, and like a drug, it made John want to stay in bed all day. “Off-site briefly. Simon’s in Germany, remember? I told you last night.” He forced himself to get up to head for the shower.
Sleep forgotten, Josie struggled up and gave him a searching look. He knew her worry. She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped.
Glancing sideways, John was about to clamp his mouth tight for a terse comment. Instead, he took a breath and spoke calmly. “I have not forgotten.” Leaning forward, he kissed her gently on the mouth. “I promised, did I not? Besides, it might not even be him.”
“And if it is?”
“Then I only want to talk to him.” John headed toward the bathroom. “After all, I have to make as if I’m at least trying to find the man. It didn’t look good to have him slip through our fingers in Bali.”
To be perfectly honest, he wanted to smash Wellesley’s face to a pulp. He also wanted to embrace him for practically handing Josie over. But Wellesley had information, and John wanted it.
Uron Koh was a dead end. A ghost. They had searched high and low, and come up with nothing. Three months’ worth of nothing. And now Wellesley had allegedly been spotted in Germany, in the company of two suspected mercenaries. What was he up to?
After Bali, Wellesley had simply vanished. He didn’t return to Britain, his work, or any of his known contacts. He just…evaporated.
John had promised Josie he wouldn’t harm Wellesley and, he supposed, given the fact Wellesley had supplied her with a name, he could live with that promise. And the man saved her life. He did like Wellesley, even though he despised him just as much. John’s greatest pleasure was the fact that Josie had confessed that he, John, had been the first man she’d been with in three hundred years. As silly as it seemed, that confession eased his jealous heart greatly. In fact, it made his heart sing, made him break out in a joyous grin. The images he’d had of Wellesley and Josie’s naked bodies entwined together had him ill with envy.
If it was Wellesley, he’d make a deal with him: his help and whatever information he had in exchange for immunity. That was more than fair. And if he wished, sanctuary within the Citadel walls. John supposed he could live with that—maybe not. It was too close for comfort. But for Josie, he would swallow vomit and live with it. Or try.
Simon had warned him not to get directly involved. It didn’t look good to have the World President himself dealing with matters his head of security and staff could more than handle on their own. His objectivity would be in question. But John wouldn’t be deterred, and in moments like this he was very much his father’s son. This was something he had to do. Himself.
To make matters worse, there had been another attempt on Josie’s life, this one open and direct, but the assassin had been dealt with quickly and efficiently. In fact, he’d self-terminated. Josie didn’t know, and John wanted to keep it so.
The assassin had used a needle-thin dart with poison, an old-school method of death, which had been administered soon after they returned from Bali. Josie was in the gardens, barely aware of anything and sullenly playing with a boy and his yellow ball. The assassin brushed against her, but thankfully the body-cast she still wore had stopped the poisonous dart from touching flesh. Before the assassin could escape, Simon had stopped him.
Simon had seen it all, and was already flying through the air in a lethal body slam. Simon had kept close watch on Josie at all times, whether personally or through his select team of operatives. But before he could break the man’s neck, the assassin had shot himself in the heart with another poisonous dart. Death was instant.
How the assassin had got in, or where he’d come from, remained a mystery. Josie knew nothing of it, not even registering when Simon discreetly plucked the lethal dart out of her shirt. The little boy, however, had seen the whole thing, but even if he talked, who’d believe the babbles of a child his age? John would have to be comforted that the boy wouldn’t be taken seriously.
Simon suspected someone had let the assassin in—someone on the inside. Getting into the Citadel was difficult, but if someone were to let him in, well, it would explain a whole lot of things. Like why, for no reason at all, the outer security sensors in the north wing had suddenly gone off a day prior. Was it to throw them off? Have them think that was the entry point? Upon inspection, they found a dead bird trapped in the security conduits, burnt to a crisp, which again was unusual.
The north wing was tightly sealed off, since it was where all the climate-control filters and turbines were housed. Inside the facility was a single emergency exit that could only be operated from the inside, or if someone tripped the wires and sprang the release. The door led to a chute, which cut right through the waterfall and down to a safe-hole where the ten crewmembers of the climate facility could flee to safety.
In order for a bird to reach the security conduit, it would’ve had to come in from the next sector, a half block away, which housed one of six security clusters. It had a tiny exhaust vent no bigger than a man’s head, secured with a laser mesh within a metal grill with only a one-inch grid space of clearance. The probability of a bird flying in was virtually impossible. And if by some miracle it had, it would still have disintegrated on contact with the laser grid. Someone had to have physically placed the bird into the conduits. Someone who really didn’t know anything about the security setup in the north wing. Or who was making as if they didn’t know.
And what bothered Simon even more was how the assassin, or suspicious person, could have walked past their personnel without being detected. The emergency exit was, after all, in the staff lounge, where he knew for a fact the technicians hung out regularly, doing nothing more strenuous than shuffling a deck of cards.
There had been other little disturbances and irregularities. Most were subtle and petty, but their increased frequency had both John and Simon wondering. Small disturbances like squabbles among groups in the community and entertainment sectors, thefts of frivolous items were being reported to the Citadel police, even pets found wandering around like strays, their owners nowhere near. There had also been an increase in visa applications for single-day and multi-day passes, no
t something to cause immediate suspicion, but the fact that they were usually requested for two specific days in the week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the case of multi-day passes, the visas required were valid from Monday evenings through Thursday evenings.
Simon had put his staff on full alert. Meanwhile, he and John set about the task of trying to pinpoint who the inside man or woman could be. It was nothing short of looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. And aside from internal matters, news was coming in that large groups of military personnel and equipment were being moved randomly around the non-Lancaster regions. Like the pieces on a chessboard, they steadily drew nearer, positioning themselves closer to the king. Many thought these were Lancaster-sanctioned moves and grew concerned about another war. News broadcasts about John branded him a lying traitor, continuing the Lancaster tradition of dictatorship. Non-Lancaster countries demanded explanations as to why military forces were in their countries. John’s PR staff was bogged down, demanding answers to their own questions, and information to tell the public. And John had no answers for anyone right now, just questions of his own.
But war was coming. Simon saw coming. War was something Simon was very good at—he could smell it in the air. Whatever happened next, John knew it wouldn’t be resolved with negotiations. People were going to die. It was time for action.
Before John left his home, he kissed Josie lightly on the forehead. She looked upset, but tried very hard not to show it. Managing a smile, she teased that he looked like a little schoolboy, showered and dressed and ready for a big exam. Were his pencils all sharpened? Did he have enough time revising? She had a strange sense of humor, one he was only just beginning to grasp, but he smiled back all the same and offered a small tease back saying they’d not used pencils for nearly a century. He had the pleasure of watching her mouth gape.
He told her he’d be back by dinnertime, when they should visit Aline and her family. And then, maybe, they could all go and visit the deep-space medical ship; it was in for its scheduled inspection and maintenance check. He knew she’d like that very much, even though it meant they would have to skip across to Greenland. Josie had talked incessantly about wanting to see a “real-life space ship,” and she marveled at space travel like a little child.
She nodded and saluted him, then snuggled back into the covers, hugging a pillow, no doubt thinking of space ships and outer space.
Chapter 32
Mrs. Trudesson was Asian, or something exotic like that. I couldn’t tell. In fact, many people I met were either of mixed or unknown lineages. Even John had a strange blend of East meets West and something in-between. Mrs. Trudesson was born and raised in Switzerland, near Geneva, and her husband, apparently, was some strapping, tall Swiss who she only ever referred to as The Mister.
Trudesson wasn’t just my housekeeper—and supplier of decadent desserts—but my body-assistant. I never thought to question what it meant, thinking it was probably a new-fangled word for minder. Until now. Outside, a nasty winter storm kicked up a fuss and, with a horrific crunching crash, knocked down a tree that broke through the snow-screens. A branch flew through the air, banging loudly against the terrace doors.
I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up behind the couch, flat on my stomach, winded, with Mrs. Trudesson’s rear end neatly planted on my back. One of her hands pressed firmly down on the back of my head, while the other held something that gave off a low hum.
“All clear,” Mrs. Trudesson declared, and hopped off me. In her right hand, she held an odd-looking black stick about the length of a ball-point pen and as thick as a bicycle handlebar. At least, that was the size it shrank to after the two one-foot ends receded and its amber light winked out.
A lightsaber?
No, not quite. But close. Like watching an old science fiction movie, the thing grabbed my attention like a magnet.
“What the—” I sat gaping at Mrs. Trudesson, who fussed with her trim shirt and ran a smoothing hand over her cropped black hair.
“Just a tree-limb from the storm. Nothing to worry about. I’ll let Maintenance know to fix the hole.” She offered a sheepish smile and turned smartly on her heel to attend to the roast in the oven. She had a distinct accent, Scandinavian, and a high, girlish voice that managed to retain a firm, strong tone.
“What in fuck’s name did you just do?” I regained my voice, struggling up on quaking legs, and continued to stare at Mrs. Trudesson’s retreating back.
“Hmm?”
“That…” I whirled my hand about in wide circles to indicate spinning, which she’d done before she pounced and flattened me to the floor. “What are you?”
“Josie,” Mrs. Trudesson said with a stern expression. “You do know what a body-assistant is, right?”
“I dunno. Something like a personal assistant. Helper? Sort of? Babysitter?”
“Seriously? I’m your bodyguard.” Hand on hip, the other hand raised up with a kitchen knife, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Three months and still uneducated. I thought you knew.” She sighed. “I always knew ancient people were seriously slow.”
The roast, lamb, filled the apartment with a delicious aroma that’d had my stomach pining for the last two hours. Now, it was forgotten.
“Oh…” I thought of nothing smarter to reply with.
A full minute’s silence followed. I cautiously approached the kitchen counter, making note of the height—chest level, or higher for Mrs. Trudesson—and casually propped an elbow on it.
“And you just…” I whirled my hand again. “…jumped clean over this, somersaulted across the room, and knocked me flat in what? A split second?”
Trudesson beamed a smile, and nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Timing was a bit off, though. Bloody apron.” She brushed the apron with a finger and flipped it with distaste. “So, roasted potatoes as well, then? Do you know if The Prez will be over tonight? He likes his potatoes. Must be the English in him.”
Blinking, I stared at my “housekeeper.” “So…can you teach me how to do that?”
“I cannot teach you how to do what I just did. It takes years of specialized training and dedication.” The roast temporarily forgotten, Mrs. Trudesson sat me down on a kitchen stool and, with arms crossed over her chest, stood before me. “Listen. I’ve been doing this since I was four.”
“But what is it? Is it like that capoeira thing?” My mind kept rewinding and reviewing her hyper-speed aerial acrobatics. I picked up the glass of red wine I’d left on the counter and sipped meditatively. I was intrigued, to say nothing of being extremely interested in learning it. I couldn’t understand why, but I wanted to know how to do it.
“Sort of. It’s all mixed up. Traditional martial arts, new combat tactics—you name it.” Running a contemplative hand through her hair, Mrs. Trudesson regarded me with pursed lips, her eyes traveling up and down my body. “We’re something like Bushi. Not formally, but spiritually, as in…” she sighed as if I was very stupid. “As in Bushido. Are you familiar?”
I tried to smother a snigger, but failed. “What? Like those ancient Japanese warriors? Ninjas?”
“Yes.” She frowned, then huffed. “It’s a very noble and honorable way of living. Okay, it has been modified to suit our modern times, but the basic codes still remain the same. The way of the warrior—that sort of thing. I really thought you’d been told all of this.”
Blowing out a breath, she continued. “We incorporate all aspects of the traditional martial arts from judo, karate and jujitsu, kung fu and tai chi, as well as the more modern forms of kickboxing, and yes, capoeira, and krav maga. We use our bodies to deflect the negative in combat, our minds to see with clarity, and our honor to keep things in balance—as in, we try not to be tempted into going to the dark side, if you see what I mean. The few that practice, who follow this code or have been chosen to follow this path, start from an early age. Like me. My mother was before me, and her mother before her. We’re the genuines. The military get a crash course sort of thing; not the same at
all, dedication-wise.”
“Krav-what?”
“Old Israeli hand-to-hand.”
My stupidity must have shown on my face, since she groaned and muttered, “Never mind.”
“No wait, seriously.” I tugged her sleeve to turn her around. “Seriously. I want to know. I mean, to defend myself, at least. And who’s we?”
It was true. I did want to learn. Both Simon and John had insisted I wear a body-shield whenever I wanted to leave my apartment. It was like a thin vest you wore as an undergarment. It snapped shut at the front with a disc-shaped clasp. The clasp emitted a low-level shield around me, and protected me from both high-velocity and close-range weapons. The actual material on the vest also protected me from full contact from knives and other projectiles.
My initial reaction to wearing one was of great apprehension, which caused me to not leave the house for a week. After the human-bomb incident, I understood the paranoia, but they insisted that most wore such shields daily. I was a little unconvinced but didn’t argue, though I did become suspicious. I got the distinct feeling people weren’t telling me everything. I knew there was imminent danger. In fact, there was danger all around. I sensed it. And I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, I might just end up as collateral damage rather than an active participant. And I was done being collateral damage.
“We are. Well, everyone who does it. The people who defend, some of the military, and some of the governmental class. Like The Prez. We all know how, and are conditioned to use our bodies and minds this way. In layman’s terms, we’re bred into it.”
“So Simon is one, too?”
“Oh yes, he’s First Level. He’s the best of the lot. Why do you think he’s The Prez’s right-hand man? And The Prez isn’t too bad, either. That’s why he doesn’t have a body-assistant. Foolish, but I suppose it’s a pride thing, too. Anyway, it’s taken me all my life and I’m still only at the Third Level.” As if that explained everything, she stood akimbo and cut a sideways glance at me. “Which is why I get the likes of you as my wards. Second Levels manage the politicians and ministers and other VIPs. I suppose, though, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you at least learned how to defend yourself. I’ll have to clear it with The Mister.”