When it was finished, Dante’s avatar had supplanted the storm mage at the top. From the listings, the other half of the battle between pirates, crusader, and dragons had ended with a grisly loss of units; Gune’s undead sorcerer had executed a coup de grace against the survivors.
There were only two players left. Dante set his mouth in a hard, thin line and prepared to meet Franklin Gune on the field of battle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BATTLEFIELD WAS SILENT, SAVE for the soft footfalls of Dante’s war elk and the heavy glup glop of the tree units as they walked through the shallows and mud. He was no longer careful of the water, with the aquatic units all dead or sunk, there was no longer any reason to fear it. The battle to come would be one of force and determination—not subtle maneuvering. Gune’s mind was a mystery. Yet, during the battle with the storm wizard, Dante had been spread out, engaged, and unable to thwart another attack. Perhaps Gune was in the same seat, grating his teeth for lack of information, but too professional to let his weakness show.
Dante’s own latent talent had grown substantially since he’d discovered it, first under human tutelage during his time in prison and now with the teachings and power of the Great Mind. Just because he hadn’t known Gune could cut his connection to the Monte Cristo didn’t mean Dante couldn’t defeat him.
I will not be a crutch. The statement had been the last thing the Monte Cristo had thought to him before Gune entered the picture.
“I am Captain of the Monte Cristo,” Dante said to himself. “I do not need a crutch. I will have my revenge.”
Revenge, hmm? Revenge puts a man in a dangerous state of mind. Some might say it’s a defenseless state. Very dangerous.
Gune’s voice continued to grate inside Dante’s head. He felt the calm pool of the other man’s thoughts and knew he was close. His own units were masked, as were his opponent’s, but there was little left to do than test each other’s mettle. Their psychic powers stood at a stalemate.
The center island looks a good place to settle this.
Only a fool would let his opponent choose the field of battle.
Dante sent the feeling of a shrug. Suit yourself. I’ll be waiting.
He set his units in motion, a slow and alert group ready to engage and guarding against surprises. All the bridges and fringe islands somehow led to the center of the arena and Dante let the natural layout of the arena guide him. He passed the other battle site, with bodies strewn here and there, their broken forms the refuse of war.
As real as the visuals looked projected into his mind from the crown, he knew them to be false and could clearly see the tell-tale signs of artificial construction. He pitied what they represented, in a detached way: lost fortunes and squandered life. Fernand was at the forefront of his mind. He kept him there like a beacon, angry, red, and leading him forward. The years in prison had done nothing to dull the sting. He used his revenge as a mask; all Gune would be able to see was his hatred.
Fernand Mondego? He’s wronged many, to be sure, and you’re among good company with your hatred of him, but why?
Dante stayed quiet. He assembled his forces and waited. Gune crested the hill moments later with skeleton knights on zombie horses and other undead monstrosities. The sorcerer leader rode a skeleton dragon; its bony wings were not able to fly, but the creature was no less dangerous. Dante realized Gune had gained his dragon mount by using his special ability, “raise undead,” on one of his opponent’s dragons. At least he couldn’t use it again, Dante thought, although it was small comfort.
Your skill at the game is obvious, as we’re the only two left, Gune rasped. Your intentions are obvious to me, as well. I’ll detect your reasons soon enough. I was an inquisitor in my day, boy. What have you been?
Dante pursed his lips. Gune’s mind wasn’t changing and was still an unreadable pool, but Dante started to see the edges of his influence. Gune was in his head, but when Dante sent his own thoughts ranging, the man couldn’t be felt. He’s concentrating all his power in one place, he realized. He doesn’t know how to split his focus.
Memories of torture and hard lessons learned in Chateau D’If from the Abbe, his first real teacher, flooded back. The pain had been exquisite, but in time he’d learned to separate his mind—cordon it off—from the part being beaten and violated. The Abbe had helped and schooled him in the subtle arts, even as he’d filled his head with stories of the Monte Cristo. He would take those teachings and use them here, splitting his mind and hoping he was right that Gune couldn’t focus on two different points at the same time. It was his only chance.
He split his mind in two and sent his second self with part of his units, breaking off to flank Gune’s advancing forces under cover. There was something else, as well, that was happening outside the arena. He could feel millions of personae changing from entertained to collectively horrified. Gune noticed it, as well, and Dante felt the other man momentarily shift his focus away from his opponent to investigate.
In that moment, Dante struck. His flanking troops weren’t yet in the best position, but he realized he wouldn’t get another chance like this. He spent the rest of his spells on his tree units, increasing their speed and strength, and made them lumber forward. He kept pace with his elk, reining in so he didn’t get ahead of his slower troops. His faster hawker scouts in the flanking force outpaced and came from the east, even as Dante realized what was happening outside: Villefort was climbing the maintenance scaffolds and catwalks of the arena. Dante reached out to his mind, feeling hints of guilt dancing around the edges and despair washing through the man’s entire psyche.
This was it: he’d pushed Villefort to the brink. What was wrong with that, though? Dante had never lifted a hand against him—never turned him over to the authorities to be sent to the hellhole he had finally escaped from. No, he’d only shown him a glance of himself in the mirror. Was there anything wrong with speaking the truth to a man?
Certainly not. It’s only justice. The ship’s mind was only connected to his for an instant to share his satisfaction, and then it was gone again. Gune must have been very powerful.
As his hidden self struck and his main force punched into the somewhat distracted forces of Gune’s undead, Villefort reached the very top of the arena. He stood there for a moment on shaky legs, the battle raging below him. His face was ghostly pale, even from so far away, and he clung to the balcony with trembling hands.
Dante couldn’t tear his eyes away from the specter.
Villefort threw his head back, like he was pulling together courage, and then let out a wild cry accompanied by a psychic wave that echoed and punched through the minds of anyone nearby. It reverberated through the Bacarrae tank, wave upon wave of pain and despair echoing through the game field. Gune faltered, shutting his mind off from the wave, along with his connection with his troops. Dante felt the effects, as well, but the part of himself he’d fractured away was safe, protected, and secure, and its troops continued their onslaught.
He sucked in a breath as he felt a shift in Villefort’s mental vibration. It hardened in resolve, and then he jumped from the highest point of the arena. His body star-fished out, like he thought he could grab the air with his stiff limbs, and then corkscrewed as he fell to the arena below. He hung in the air for long seconds, each stretching to infinity as the inevitable grew closer. The fall took long seconds, but so short compared to the years of desiccation Dante had suffered at his hands.
He let the man’s final psychic cry wash over him. This was his revenge, and it was glorious and horrible and wonderful. He flinched from the guilt of it, even while feeling a grim satisfaction that it was done. He’d uncovered every sordid deed Villefort had ever committed—every back room deal and betrayal starting, of course, with his own. There was no need to shy away from the truth. For nearly two decades, he’d suffered from Villefort’s choice. The man had done this.
As Gune recoiled from the psychic blast, Dante struck. Gune’s units came forward,
leaderless and listless, and fell effortlessly as his own troops marched forward. The flanking maneuver he’d prepared to even the odds was now overkill; the other man’s vanguard was crushed and the skeleton dragon that had seemed so powerful before could not stand against the forces he brought to bear. As Gune came back to his senses, his commander began to flee, boosted by the haste spell “ghost.” Dante sent his avatar in pursuit, the only unit fast enough to catch him. The battle was all but finished.
You need no crutch. Monte Cristo’s mind was suddenly back in Dante’s head, the alien a reassuring presence.
Gune lost his control?
That human? No human could shut me out! I left to test you. You are becoming yourself, slowly. I shall reveal all of you to yourself, yet.
A test?
You learned much.
The ship’s voice, however, was interrupted by a desperate cry. Help! Dante, can you hear me? Please, someone! Please!
The mental voice of the cry stabbed through him. Albert was in trouble! That would have been enough to worry him, but the cry resonated with him. It vibrated in his mind so his thoughts buzzed with it like a string beside a tuning fork. Albert’s mind, which had opened completely in this vulnerable moment, matched his in impossible ways. It was like a thinner version of his own, void of the scar tissue of years in prison. He felt an immediate and overwhelming need to protect him like nothing he’d felt before.
Dante’s head whipped around. He needed out of the simulation. He needed to get to Albert.
I’m coming! He shouted back with his psyche, hoping the answer would reach the boy and give him some sort of hope as he ran to save him.
Not now! the Monte Cristo insisted. Now, we win!
He needs me. I cannot refuse him.
What about Jack? You play for his indenture. Albert is the son of the enemy!
Dante’s head spun. Gune and victory was just ahead, but Albert’s life hung in the balance. If he left now, he would forfeit and lose Jack’s freedom. If he didn’t, Albert would lose his.
He’d just have to risk it. If he lost Jack’s freedom, he could win it back. If he failed, he, his crew, and the Monte Cristo could strike at whoever took Jack and steal him back, blast out of the system, and hide in a backwater somewhere. He didn’t need to worry about that now. No, right now, he was powerless to do anything but run to the Albert’s aid.
You realize what this means, don’t you—this resonance?
Yes, he answered the ship.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dante snatched the halo off his head, leaping from the chair.
Forfeit, said the writing on the wall in bright, blinking letters. Lily stood beside it with a hand over her mouth. She’d bet on him to win, Dante remembered—another person he was disappointing—but he couldn’t think of that now. He let the halo fall to the floor and dove for the door. Skidding through the halls, he sped to find the other arena in the low lighting and coolness of the players’ level.
There it was! He scanned the leaderboard noting the game was almost complete. The game bet was a level six: the loss of your life, or the life of someone you cared about. Knowing Albert, he had bet his own.
Why had he bet such risky stakes? Was Mondego Industries so callous that they would risk the life of the heir? Fernand was a cruel master and a crueler father, but this...
Dante smacked his hand hard against the holo, skipping past the formalities and registering his own late bet. He’d start with a penalty and have only a quarter of the resources of the current game leader, but it was his only chance. With shaking hands, he selected the option to let him play on Albert’s team, their victory shared if they achieved it.
Once everything was confirmed, he leaped through the door as soon as it opened, jumping past the holographic greeter who sought to confirm his entry and into the only player room with an open door. An attendant was cleaning the halo.
“I’ll take that.” He snatched it from her hand, ignoring her startled cry, and jammed it on his head, wincing as it made the rough connection.
His thoughts raced as the program connected. He had a son. Family. Blood of his blood. Mind of his mind. They’d hidden that, too. Somehow, his pain of betrayal stung a thousand times worse at the understanding that he’d been robbed of a treasure he’d never even known he had. They’d taken everything from him: his future, his freedom, his friends, his lover… his son.
He bit hard on the inside of his cheek to force his thoughts to focus. This was no time for pain or grief—he was about to lose the boy before he even knew him for who he was and nothing could make him allow that.
If you do this, you’ll have no help from me. We’re here for one reason only, and it’s not to rescue bastards.
He’s my son!
Dante leaped into the game, his mind searching the landscape in great sweeps. He couldn’t afford to take the best strategy; he could only afford to find his son. There!
He drove his full force at top speed toward the hill where Albert’s single remaining unit stood and fought. The young man was surrounded by enemies, and their forces far outnumbered Dante’s. Even from here, he could see Albert’s unit was flagging. He had only moments.
How could he save him? There was no way he could come up with a strategy that drew the battle away from Albert in time. He watched an enemy unit strike Albert’s with a critical hit.
“Dante!” he cried as his unit flashed a warning. One more strike was all it would take.
Dante swallowed, feeling fear pulse through him. He couldn’t allow his son to die before his eyes, pleading with him for salvation. He’d rather go back to prison—he’d rather let them betray him all over again.
He screamed mentally at his enemies, throwing all his psychic weight behind it. They must be stopped. They. Must. Be. Stopped.
The enemy units froze mid-stride. All three of the opposing players’ units were stuck in place, unmoving. Dante gasped—his head screamed in pain. What had he done? How had he frozen them? It didn’t matter; his units crashed into the enemies until there was nothing left but Albert looking shocked.
I did say you had the potential to do more.
The game announced them winners, but it wasn’t enough. He had to be sure Albert was alright and that there wasn’t a misunderstanding or hidden penalty. He mentally threw himself back into his body, snatched the halo from his head, and dashed past the horrified attendant.
There! One of the rooms had Albert’s name on it. Dante flung open the door as the boy’s eyes opened. He was alive. Alive! His brown eyes—so like his mother’s—looked back at him and Dante fought to control his own expression. How could he have missed it? He must have been blinded by his desire for revenge, because now he couldn’t stop seeing himself in the boy. AThe look in his eye—relieved, but confused—told Dante his son could sense something, too.
“Albert!” Mercedes flew into the room, anxiety flooding her expression. “I was watching the game. I thought all was lost.”
“Mother,” he allowed her embrace.
That moment between mother and son was too much, and Dante spun and fled the room, returning to his own, with his breath heaving in his chest. He needed to slow down and pull himself together.
The attendant, stunned, still stood where he’d left her.
“They all froze,” he said, glaring at her as if she could explain it.
She shook, but tapped her implanted communications system and said, “The other competitors were found unconscious in their chairs. Whatever you did—”
“A moment of privacy, please.” His tone was sharp; he didn’t need to hear either applause or scolding from her. She left, taking the halo with her.
He clutched the head of the chair, trying to suck in a breath, the sight of mother and son still etched across his retinas. That should have been his. His betrayers had taken that from him, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DANTE FLEXED HIS HANDS, TRYING to keep his brain from spinning. It all added up.
Albert was eighteen years old and Dante had been imprisoned nineteen years ago. Psychic ability was hereditary—even before he had been imprisoned, Napoleon had claimed he was a strong psychic.
He ran a hand through his hair and sucked in a deep breath. He’d bent almost double to lean on the wall with one hand. Now that he had a moment to think, it was all crashing in on him.
He’s your son. The Monte Cristo was as sure as he was.
He’d liked the boy from the moment he’d met him, but now something protective and fierce had blossomed in his heart. There must have been a way to keep him out of the events Dante had set in motion—to keep him safe. He just needed time to think.
It’s too late. Now that you’ve begun, you can’t stop.
The ship cared nothing for mercy, but there was always a way if you took the time to think it through.
He’d escaped from prison, hadn’t he? He’d assembled a crew of men who had been intent on killing him. He’d found the Monte Cristo and watched Villefort fall to his death—the perfect revenge. There had to be a way to get this, too.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and shied away from it like an injured beast. Looking up, his head still whirling, he saw her: Mercedes. Her hand rested on his shoulder, her eyes concerned and deep with emotion.
“Are you injured?” she asked.
He shook himself, fury filling him at what she’d stolen. What had she been thinking when she purposely betrayed the father of her son? Suddenly, it was as if a missing piece had clicked into place. She’d been pregnant when she’d betrayed him. She’d been carrying—protecting—his son. She’d done it for Albert, too.
Her smile was tentative. “I came to thank you for saving my son… again. What would we do without you? I will cover the cost of what you lost and gladly give you whatever is in my power to give.”
He swallowed, because now when he looked at her, he saw the woman he once loved. The protective stone of his heart cracked a little. Desire tore through him, laced with the hurt of betrayal. She was still his Mercedes and the mother not of Fernand’s child, but of his. Somehow, that made her more precious and the horrible pain of loss more powerful.
Captain of the Monte Cristo: a space opera retelling of the classic tale (Classic Retellings Book 1) Page 11