by O. J. Lowe
It felt good to get back out among it though, get his fists bruised and his danger reflex kicked up several notches. He’d not realised how much he’d missed it. The last months, being kept away from the action had left a hole in him he’d never realised truly was there until it came to fill it.
“I want to hear what happens to Helga first, her chances. Then we’ll leave. Steal a different speeder…”
“I think you’ll find that’s a crime. The word you were looking for is commandeer,” Nick said.
“That badge unlocks many doors, Nicholas, it justifies a great many actions that wouldn’t be acceptable at most other times.”
“Okay,” Nick said. He didn’t have a problem with the act, just felt like knocking at Frewster for implying he might leave him in the lurch when he was no longer valuable. If he was going to do that, he’d have let Helga die and they’d already have been back at a Unisco building. He’d said no more, and he’d meant it. “Go talk to Ramsey and we’ll get out of here. Leave her in his care, we’ll try and retrieve her later.”
“Agent Roper?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” Frewster said. He held out a hand. “You know you’re right. She would have been dead by now if we’d carried on. I didn’t want that to happen, but I don’t want my own life to end this way either. Running in fear, hiding.”
Above them, the stadium had gone silent. Nick didn’t notice. “You know, I lost someone, right? Back when all this started. I still remember that. Haunts me. I remember that moment when I found she’d died, I can’t bear thinking about it sometimes. Someone somewhere cares for Helga…”
“Me,” Frewster said. “I’m all she’s got. No family. Nobody else.”
“… And if she’d died, then you’d miss her. I’d have given anything for someone to have done their best to try and save Sharon when all looked lost. I can’t let someone else die when I had that chance to help them.”
“You’re a very strange Unisco agent, you know.”
“That’s been said,” Nick said. “I’ve done a lot of bad things in the name of the kingdoms. I just wanted to do some good for someone, you know?”
“Your bosses won’t hear it from me, Nicholas. I’ll tell them that you did absolutely everything by the book. They’ll believe me on that, trust me. I wrote the damn book.”
Nick smirked, heard the scream and the expression vanished. He raised his eyes towards the nearest viewing screen. All stadiums had them in their tunnels, unrestricted views of the battlefield.
“Oh crap!”
All eyes were on her as she’d flown down astride the back of her magnificent eagle, Geraint, great wings casting larger shadows across the ground. She could feel the adrenaline roaring through her veins, louder than the silence that threatened to engulf the two of them as the shadow shrank progressively the closer they came to land.
She was following in the Mistress’ footsteps. She’d been here on that fateful day, she’d descended from the skies like this and the kingdoms had changed forever following that act. Any doubts she might have had about her course of action, they were lost amidst the mess of fuzzy feelings flooding her mind. This was right. This was just. The Mistress had done this, it was the single greatest act of imitation she could manage in her mission to ensure that her will be done.
Everything she did, she did for the Mistress. To do anything else was to deny her that acclaim. The Angels had been intended for this purpose, despite the stupid name Rocastle had festooned on them. Angels of Death. He’d tried to sound dramatic, he’d come off a bit of an idiot, but the name had stuck. Who was laughing now?
Her summoner activated, the second crystal firing into action. This one was special, she’d been given one of the Ista Neroux by the Mistress herself to carry out her duties. A special gift for one recognised, she’d said. A credit to the name Coppinger and a loyal soldier until the end. Very few had ever seen the creature that emerged onto the battlefield, landing gracefully despite its size.
It might have been a leopard once, if leopards grew to the size of houses, legs thicker than tree trunks and covered in onyx-black fur that she was sure shimmered in the sunlight. Its ears stood so prominent, they could have been mistaken for horns, the claws were the length of Saarth’s arm, sharp enough to cut through steel. She’d seen it happen. Nobody faced the Ista Neroux and lived if they weren’t meant to.
The Mistress had made a brilliant choice in her wisdom, she’d wanted to be revered as a Divine, she’d seen how they’d been depicted in folklore and literature and she’d also seen how the people of the kingdoms worshipped spirit callers with their fantastic beasts. The two had been combined. Ista Neroux. New Divines. Icons. Win their hearts and you’ll take their minds in short order. That sort of brilliance was why they would win the war. Nobody the enemy had could shine a light to her radiance.
Mykeltros bared its teeth, breath huffed out of its nostrils. She took care not to breathe it in, the stuff was toxic after all. A few people in the front seats of the crowd started to vomit. Her lips curled into a smile.
“People of…” What the hells was this town called? She didn’t know. Saarth blinked several times. It’d come to her. “… Here. My quarrel is not with you. I seek someone within your midst!” How had the Mistress done this? Her voice felt too quiet, a faint echo amidst a great space. She should have stolen a microphone, commandeered the tannoy. “Give me Brennan Frewster and I will spare you all a poisonous death.”
She gave the command, Mykeltros belched a thick cloud of gas towards a different section of the crowd, dozens of people started to vomit up blood instantly, their screams of pain and terror a music to her ears.
“Or maybe the old man wants to come out himself, save a lot of pain and suffering caught in his name. That would be the honourable thing to do in front of the eyes of the kingdoms, would it not? Maybe he’s a coward. That’s about right for someone like him. They talk a good game, they talk about honour and the right way to do things, but they’ll soon take a short cut if it’s in their benefit.”
Maybe she wasn’t entirely talking solely about Frewster. Some wounds faded hard. She was still annoyed about the way she’d gone out of the Quin-C. As much as she knew it ultimately didn’t matter now, the memories lingered. They defined her. They were a final scrape of indignation against a mind that had tried to move on. She wanted someone to challenge her. She wanted to make an example of them. More than that, she wanted Frewster to do something. Anything. If he made a move, she’d gotten to him. Rocastle’s training had covered psychology. Any advantage you could get was a good one.
A figure appeared at the tunnel entrance to the battlefield, didn’t run but sauntered, hands in pockets and like he didn’t have a care in the world. It wasn’t Frewster, she could see that much. Too well-built, far too young. His face came into view, she couldn’t help but feel pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t Frewster, but he would do as an acceptable substitute.
Nicholas Roper. The man who’d damn near killed her when he’d shot that grenade into her aeroship. Revenge would be undeniably sweet. He’d tied a rag over his face, covering his nose and his mouth. He’d seen the poison, he’d taken precautions. They might not save him if she turned Mykeltros on him, but she wasn’t ready to test that theory yet.
“I asked for Frewster!” she said. “Where is he?”
Nick shrugged. “Somewhere around here. Not entirely sure.”
Her face contorted into a snarl, she balled her hands into tiny fists. “I want him!”
“Sweetheart, life’s full of things that we want and not going to get. Now take your giant bloody cat and fuck right off before I kick your arse up between your eyeballs and handcuff what’s left untangled.”
He had a blaster tucked into the waist of his trousers, hadn’t gone for it yet. Maybe he didn’t want to murder someone live on television. Or maybe he didn’t want to have to fight Mykeltros off if he killed her and the spirit went for him in a final act of defiance.
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“I’d like to see you try,” she said, her voice cold. She’d never heard herself sound like that before and it worried her.
“Trying implies that there’s a chance of failure.” He shot her a grin. “I think you tried at the Quin-C, didn’t get you very far, did it?”
He knew who she was. He’d recognised her, even with the change of appearance and demeanour. She knew she didn’t act like the person she was before. The old Weronika Saarth would never have done anything like this. She’d have been one of the terrified ones in the stadium, too scared to move or think, cowering under her seat like some sort of terrible coward.
“You didn’t do too good yourself,” she shot back, painfully aware of how inadequate it was as a response. If he thought it was bitingly witty, he didn’t show it, just grinned.
“My promise still stands,” he said. “Leave Frewster alone, leave this place and you won’t get shown up again. I mean, it’s only the first professional Canterage bout in ages, how many people tuned in to watch this around the kingdoms? Couple of million? Ten million? Twenty? Fifty? Fifty million people watching you fail.”
“They won’t,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “I will not fail her!”
“Ah yes, Claudia Coppinger.” His voice turned mocking. “The nutcase with what we can only assume is some sort of masterplan.”
Her heart pounded in her ears, blood dripped from her palms where she’d dug in her nails, old scars torn open. How dare he insult her! The Mistress was sacred, a target above all petty comments. She was trying to bring the light and men like him were forcing everyone to stay in the dark.
“You will regret taking her name in vain!” she snarled. Geraint vanished beneath her feet, dispelled back to the container crystal and she slotted another in. Sarge erupted out, the surang ape beat both fists against his chest and tore across the ground towards Roper with lumbering footsteps.
Chapter Eleven. Stadium Showdown.
“If you go looking for a fight, it will inevitably find you. The righteous man who seeks to avoid violence may have it visited upon him, but never will he walk unwillingly into it. In this life, we all find the fruits of our labours to be exactly what we seek. Hard workers see reward, lazy workers see little. It’s the same with men of violence and peace. Now I’ve never found those two notions mutually exclusive. You cannot have one without the other.”
Zent Barkhuizen, noted Serranian holy man in speech to his congregation.
Nick had been prepared for this, ever since he’d stepped into the arena. He’d had his own summoner in his hands ready. If it hadn’t been for that big black cat stood above her, he’d have shot her in the head already and had done with it. The number of shots left in the blaster weren’t many, but they’d do. Better to wear her down gradually, make her angry or overconfident. He’d seen her fight before. She’d had Scott Taylor on the ropes at one point, no mean feat given how far he’d gotten at last summer’s tournament. She’d thought she’d won, she’d gotten cocky with her imminent victory and Taylor had pulled it out via a method she hadn’t liked, not that she’d been quiet about saying so either.
The complaints had come, those protests of unfair behaviour and cheating had gotten her the attention of Coppinger and her ensemble. Collison had confirmed as much to them when they’d pulled him out, told them how the whole thing worked. They already had Ulikku. Saarth was there in front of him. There were plenty more out there, though given what had already happened today, he had to believe there were less now than at the start of the day.
They didn’t matter right now, not with the ape coming for him. He pushed a button on his summoner, Bish the garj appeared between him and the oncoming surang, simian bulk dwarfing elegant grace. It didn’t matter. He had a plan. Fools rushed in. He didn’t intend to turn it into a slugging match he couldn’t win.
Bish leaped at the surang, sprang up into the air and planted one hand into its shoulders, leaping over its back with ease. The ape hesitated, almost stumbled and swiped at Bish just a little too late. Meaty fists closed around empty air and Bish thrust down, driving both elbow blades down into the opponent’s back. The bellow that broke from its lungs was something truly to hear as it went berserk, tried to reach around behind and throw Bish off. Thick fingers scrabbled impotently at rough fur, muscles bent back at almost unnatural angles but Bish had leaped clear. The surang rounded on his direction, feet scrabbling wildly in the dust, flung out a fist that didn’t even come close to landing. As the blow struck empty air, Bish charged himself, took off at a sprint and was on the ape before it could react. Blades whistled through the air, struck Sarge’s stomach in an X shape. Blood gushed out, spattered across the snow-white fur that made up Bish’s face like an ugly tattoo. Sarge howled, threw out both fists towards Bish who danced backwards, evading the blows with dancer-like movements. Not content with powerhouse blows, the surang continued to swing out, throwing sledgehammer-like punches through the air. None came close, the ape looked cumbersome and slow next to Bish’s speed. All power and no finesse.
He wasn’t falling for it. Nobody had done as well as Saarth had to get to a Quin-C latter round without some sort of extra trick in her pouch. Brute force was okay, but it only took a caller so far. Couldn’t depend on it, not against a better opponent.
Nick made the choice in that moment to show her why that was the case. He gave Bish the mental command to hang back, let the ape close in. Close in it did, bearing down on the garj, fist brought back ready to swing. He tried not to think about what might happen if Bish caught the blow. It wouldn’t be pretty. The garj was fast but not the hardiest of creatures. Nobody would call them delicate, but they lacked for natural defences against creatures capable of snapping them into two pieces should the mood take them. Best form of defence was not getting hit in the first place.
Sarge swept in on the stationary garj, ready to crush him between those two huge arms, crush, smash, beat into a fine mist. Not going to happen, not while Nick had any command in the matter. One moment Bish was there, the next he was gone in a flicker of light, a distortion in the air all that remained. Sarge stumbled, suddenly trying to grab something that couldn’t be held. The surang ape fell, landed flat on its giant face and Nick saw Bish reappear behind the simian opponent. The blades swung down in a scissoring motion, severing head from shoulders in a swift movement.
Saarth looked furious, exactly the sort of outcome he’d hoped for. She didn’t like it when people looked like they were toying with her. His guess was she had a real chip on her shoulder about being taken seriously. When Collison had offered up his insights into the callers Coppinger had recruited into the Angels, Unisco psychologists had tried to build up psych profiles on everyone they knew had been recruited for sure. That was what they’d said about Saarth. Tiny woman. High voice. Cute-ish. Not very physically imposing. Easy to underestimate. That might have been then, he thought as he watched her. She might be small, but there were hidden depths to her. Beneath clothes that were too big for her, he could see the outline of muscle. Six months of training. It wouldn’t be foolish to assume they’d had her on some sort of program.
She dispelled the dead ape into nothing, gestured furiously at him and Bish. The huge leopard bared its teeth hungrily. Nick clenched his fists. He’d seen something like this before. One of Claudia Coppinger’s modified spirits. This wouldn’t be easy. He doubted Bish could take it. He’d faced one before, it had wiped out an entire Unisco team and their spirits, as well as four of his before he’d gotten a handle on it.
No, this he’d have to play carefully. Nick glanced back towards the tunnel. He just hoped Frewster was following the plan.
When the woman had appeared with her eagle, Roper had sprung into action. He might be a strange one, Frewster had noticed, but he didn’t lack for decisiveness. It was a trait missing all too often in the younger generations. Roper had seen a problem and he’d moved to address it. Not that he’d taken much encouragement to storm out onto the battle
field and distract the young lady with the drastic hairstyle. Frewster had seen them all, from beehives to mohawks and baldness wasn’t unique, but he’d never seen it carried out with quite so severe an effect. She didn’t look well, her skin pallid and her eyes rimmed with black.
Helga was okay, he’d checked in. Ramsey was still treating her, bless his heart. He’d glanced back, gestured with his head for Frewster to give him some space and he’d been all too happy to oblige. He had his part to play in all this. If Roper was distracting, Frewster needed to play his own part.
He’d made his way to the commentary booth, panting a little with the effort. He was in good shape for his golden years, but the day had been a trying one and even with the best will in the world, his flesh was weak. His heart pounded hard in his chest, he felt his vision swim at the top of the stairs as he gasped for breath. His legs felt like rubber beneath him, shaking wildly with the strenuousness of his efforts. He shouldn’t be pulling stunts like this at his age.
The commentary booth had already been abandoned, the safest position in the stadium and the figure who would have been expected to be here had fled. Frewster clucked his tongue, refrained from vocalising his anger. Still, the job had to be done. The equipment might be modern, but some things never truly changed. He found the microphone, checked that it was connected to the console and hit the transmit button, clearing his throat as he did.
“Attention, all. This is a public safety announcement. Please exit the stadium in an orderly manner while the bad woman is currently trying to kill the good guy. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Quickly but calmly, chop, chop.”
He laughed to himself, shook his head. It wasn’t a laughing matter; the absurdity of the situation was getting to him. To be amid a situation like this, it was preposterous to say the least.