The Mark Two was a pistol, small and useful for assassination, that used the same ammunition as the Mark One. It came complete with designs for a sound suppressor.
Sula kissed Sidney on his smoky mouth, gave him enough money to pay the next month’s rent on his shop, and let PJ buy them all lunch.
Meanwhile, Julien had been cleared of suspicion by the Legion of Diligence, though he was remaining in custody as a hostage. Casimir called to tell Sula. “He’s in the Reservoir prison, damn it,” he said. “There’s no way we can get him out of there.”
Calculations shimmered through her mind. “Let me think about that,” she replied.
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Should we get together and talk about it?”
Sula knew there were certain things one shouldn’t say over a comm, and they were skating right along the edge. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ve got some research to do first.”
She spent some time in public databases, researching the intricacies of the Zanshaa legal system, and more time with back numbers of theForensic Register, the publication of the Zanshaa Legal Association. More time was spent seeing who in theRegister had left Zanshaa with the old government and who hadn’t.
Having gathered her data, Sula called Casimir and told him she needed him to set up a meeting with Sergius. While waiting to hear back from him, she prepared the next number ofResistance.
In addition to including plans for the Sidney Mark Two, she praised the Axtattle sniper-“a member of the Eino Kangas wing of the secret army”-and eulogized the assassins of the Urban Patrol officers as “members of the Action Front, an organization allied with the secret government.” She hoped the realization that they hadtwo organizations fighting them now would drive the Naxids crazy.
When Casimir called, he told her the meeting had been arranged. Sula removed her contacts, donned her blond wig, and went to the Cat Street club to meet him.
Sergius Bakshi and Casimir had resumed their normal lives after the Legion had released Julien to the prison system, as Sula was taken to meet Sergius in his office, on the second floor of an unremarkable building in the heart of Riverside.
She and Casimir passed through an anteroom of flunkies and hulking guards, all of whom she regarded with patrician hauteur, and into Sergius’s own office, where he rose to greet her. The office was as unremarkable as the building, with scuffed floors, second-hand furniture, and the musty smell of things that had been left lying too long in corners.
People with real power, Sula thought, didn’t need to show it.
Sergius took her hand, and though the touch of his big hand was light, she could sense the restrained power in his grip. “What may I do for you, Lady Sula?” he asked.
“Nothing right now,” she said. “Instead, I hope to be of service to you.”
The ruthless eyes flicked to Casimir, who returned an expression meant to convey that he knew what Sula proposed to offer. Sergius returned his attention to her.
“I appreciate your thinking of me,” he said. “Please sit down.”
At least, Sula thought, she got to sit down this time. Sergius began to move behind his desk again.
“I believe I can get Julien out of the Reservoir,” Sula said.
Sergius stopped moving, and for the first time, she saw emotion in his dark eyes; a glimpse into a black void of deep-seated desire that seemed all the more frightening in a man who normally appeared bereft of feeling.
Whether Sergius wanted his son back because he loved him or because Julien was a mere possession that some caprice of fate had taken from him, it was clearly a deep, burning hunger, a need as clear and primal and rapacious as that of a hungry panther for his dinner.
Sergius looked at her for a long moment, the need burning in his eyes, then straightened in his shabby chair and clasped his big pale hands on the desk in front of him. His face had again gone blank.
“That’s interesting,” he said.
“I want you to understand that I can’t set Julien at liberty,” she said. “I believe I can get him transferred to the holding cells at the Riverside police station, or to any other place that suits you. You’ll have to get him out of there yourself.
“I’ll provide official identification for Julien that will allow him to move freely, but of course…” She looked into the unreadable eyes. “He’ll be a fugitive until the Naxids are removed from power.”
Sergius held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. “How may I repay you for this favor?” he asked.
Sula suppressed a smile. She had her list well prepared.
“The secret government maintains a business enterprise used to transfer munitions and the like from one place to another. It’s operating under the cover of a food distribution service. Since food distribution is about to become illegal, I’d like to be able to operate this enterprise under your protection, and without the usual fees.”
Sula wondered if she was imagining the hint of a smile that played about Sergius Bakshi’s lips. “Agreed,” he said.
“I would also like ten Naxids to die.”
One eyebrow gave a twitch. “Ten?”
“Ten, and of a certain quality. Naxids in the Patrol, the Fleet, or the Legion, all of officer grade; or civil servants with ranks of CN6 or higher. And it must be clear that they’ve been murdered-they can’t seem to die in accidents.”
His voice was cold. “You wish this done when?”
“It’s not a precondition. The Naxids may die within any reasonable amount of time after Julien is released.”
Sergius seemed to thaw a little. “You will provoke the Naxids into one massacre after another.”
She gave a little shrug and tried to match with her own the glossy inhumanity of the other’s eyes. “That is incidental,” she said.
He gave an amused, twisted little smile. It was as out of place on his round immobile face as a bray of laughter. “I’ll agree to this,” he said. “But I want it clear that I’ll pick the targets.”
“Certainly,” Sula said.
“Anything else?”
“I’d like an extraction team on hand, just in case my project doesn’t go well. I don’t expect we’ll need them, though.”
“Extraction team?” Sergius’s lips formed the unaccustomed syllables, and then his face relaxed into the one he probably wore at home, which was still, in truth, frightening enough.
“I suppose you’d better tell me about this plan of yours,” he said.
Sula’s legal research told her that three sets of people had the authority to move prisoners from one location to another. There was the prison bureaucracy itself, which housed the prisoners, shuttled them to and from interrogations and trials, and worked them in innumerable factories and agricultural communes. All those in the bureaucracy with the authority to sign off on prisoner transfers were now Naxids. Sergius apparently hadn’t yet gotten any of them on his payroll, or Julien would already have been shifted out of the Reservoir.
The second group consisted of Judges of the High Court and of Final Appeal, all of whom had been evacuated before the Naxid fleet arrived. The new administration had replaced them all with Naxids.
The third group were Judges of Interrogation. It was not a prestigious posting, and some had been evacuated and some hadn’t. Apparently, Sergius didn’t have any of these in his pocket, either.
Lady Mitsuko Inada was one of those who hadn’t left Zanshaa. She lived in Green Park, a quiet, wealthy enclave on the west side of the city. The district had none of the ostentation or flamboyant architecture of the High City-probably none of the houses had more than fifteen or sixteen rooms. Those homes still occupied by their owners tried to radiate a comfortable air of wealth and security but were undermined by the untended gardens and shuttered windows of the neighboring buildings, abandoned by their owners, who had fled to another star system or, failing that, to the country.
Lady Mitsuko’s dwelling was on the west side of the park, which was the least expensive and least fash
ionable. It was built of gray fieldstone, with a green alloy roof, an onion dome of greenish copper, and two ennobling sets of chimney pots. The garden in front was mossy and frondy, with ponds and fountains. There were willows in the back, which suggested more ponds.
Peers constituted about two percent of the empire’s population, and as a class, controlled more than ninety percent of its wealth. But there was immense variation within the order of Peers, ranging from individuals who controlled the wealth of entire systems to those who lived in genuine poverty. Lady Mitsuko was on the lower end of the scale. Her job didn’t entitle her to an evacuation, and neither did her status within the Inada clan.
All Peers, even the poor ones, were guaranteed an education and jobs in the Fleet, civil service, or bar. It was possible that Lady Mitsuko had worked herself up to her current status from somewhere lower.
Sula rather hoped she had. If Lady Mitsuko had a degree of social insecurity, it might work well for Sula’s plans.
Macnamara drove her to the curb in front of the house. He wore a dark suit and a brimless round cap and looked like a professional driver. He opened Sula’s door from the outside, and helped her out with a hand gloved in Devajjo leather.
“Wait,” she told him, though he would anyway, since that was the plan.
Neither of them looked at the van cruising along the far side of the park, packed with heavily armed Riverside Clique gunmen.
Sula straightened her shoulders-she was Fleet again, in her blond wig-and marched up the walk and over the ornamental bridge to the house door. With gloved fingers, to hide fingerprints, she reached for the grotesque ornamental bronze head near the door and touched the shiny spot that would alert anyone inside to the presence of a visitor. She heard chiming within, removed her uniform cap from under her arm and put it on her head. She had visited one of Team 491’s storage lockers, and now wore her full dress uniform of viridian green, with her lieutenant’s shoulder boards, glossy shoes, and her two medals-the Medal of Merit, Second Class, for her part in the Blitsharts rescue, and the Nebula Medal, with Diamonds, for wiping out a Naxid squadron at Magaria.
Her sidearm was a weight against one hip.
To avoid being overconspicuous, she wore a nondescript overcoat, which she removed as soon as she heard footsteps in the hall. She held it over the pistol and its holster.
The singing tension in her nerves kept her back straight, her chin high. She had to remember that she was a Peer. Not a Peer looking down her nose at cliquemen, but a Peer interacting with another of her class.
That had always been hardest-to pretend that she was born to this.
A female servant opened the door, a middle-aged Terran. She wasn’t in livery, but in neat, subdued civilian clothes.
Lady Mitsuko, Sula concluded, possessed little in the way of social pretension.
Sula walked past the surprised servant and into the hallway. The walls had been plastered beige, with little works of art in ornate frames, and her shoes clacked on deep gray tile.
“Lady Caroline to see Lady Mitsuko, please,” she said, and took off her cap.
The maidservant closed the door and held out her hands for the cap and overcoat. Sula looked at her. “Go along, now,” she said.
The servant looked doubtful, then gave a little bow and trotted into the interior of the house. Sula examined herself in a hall mirror of polished nickel asteroid material, adjusted the tilt of one of her medals, and waited.
Lady Mitsuko appeared, walking quickly. She was younger than Sula had expected, in her early thirties, and very tall. Her body was angular and she had a thin slash of a mouth and a determined jaw that suggested that, as a Judge of Interrogation, she was disinclined to let prisoners get away with much. Her light brown hair was worn long and caught in a tail behind, and she wore casual clothes. She dabbed with a napkin at a food spot on her blouse.
“Lady Caroline?” she said. “I’m sorry. I was just giving the twins their supper.” She held out her hand, but there was a puzzled frown on her face as she wondered whether she had met Sula before.
Sula startled her by bracing in salute, her chin high. “Lady Magistrate,” she said. “I come on official business. Is there somewhere we may speak privately?”
“Yes,” Lady Mitsuko replied, her hand still outheld. “Certainly.”
She took Sula to her office, a small room that still had the slight aroma of the varnish used on the shelves and furniture of light-colored wood.
“Will you take a seat, my lady?” Mitsuko said as she closed the door. “Shall I call for refreshment?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sula said. “I won’t be here long.” She stood before a chair but didn’t sit, and waited until Lady Mitsuko stepped behind her desk before she spoke again.
“You have my name slightly wrong,” Sula said. “I’m not Lady Caroline, but rather Caroline, Lady Sula.”
Lady Mitsuko’s eyes darted to her and she froze with one hand on the back of her office chair, her mouth parted in surprise.
“Do you recognize me?” Sula prompted.
“I…don’t know.” Mitsuko pronounced the words as if speaking a foreign language.
Sula reached into a pocket and produced her Fleet ID. “You may examine my identification if you wish,” she said. “I’m on a mission for the secret government.”
Lady Mitsuko pressed the napkin to her heart. The other hand reached for Sula’s identification. “The secret government…” she said softly, as if to herself.
She sank slowly into her hair, her eyes on the ID as Sula sat down too, with her overcoat and cap in her lap. She waited for Lady Mitsuko’s eyes to lift from the ID, then said, “We require your cooperation.”
Mitsuko slowly extended her arm, returning Sula’s identification. “What do you-what does the secret government want?” she asked.
Sula leaned forward and took her ID. “The government requires you to transfer twelve hostages from the Reservoir Prison to the holding cells at the Riverside police station. I have a list ready-will you set your comm to receive?”
Speaking slowly, as if in a daze, Lady Mitsuko readied her comm. Sula triggered her sleeve display to send to the desk comm the names of Julien, Veronika, nine prisoners chosen at random from the official posted list of hostages, and-just because she was feeling mischievous when she made the list-the Two Sticks’ Cree cook.
“We expect the order to be sent tomorrow,” Sula said. She cleared her throat in a businesslike way. “I am authorized to say that after the return of the legitimate government, your loyalty will be rewarded. On the other hand, if the prisoner transfer does not take place, you will be assassinated.”
Mitsuko’s look was scandalized. She stared at Sula for a blank second, then seemed to notice for the first time the holstered pistol at Sula’s hip. Her eyes jumped away and she made a visible effort to collect herself.
“What reason shall I give for the transfer?” she said.
“Whatever seems best to you. Perhaps they need to be interrogated in regard to certain crimes. I’m sure you can come up with a good reason.” Sula rose from her chair. “I shan’t keep you.”
And best regards to the twins.Sula considered adding that, a clear malicious threat to the children, but decided it was unnecessary.
She rather thought that she and Lady Mitsuko had reached an understanding.
Mitsuko escorted her to the door, lost in thought, her movements disconnected, as if her nervous system hadn’t quite caught up with events. At least she didn’t look as if she’d panic and run for the comm as soon as the door closed.
Sula threw the overcoat over her shoulders. “Allow me to wish you a good evening, Lady Magistrate,” she said.
“Um…good evening, Lady Sula,” Lady Mitsuko replied.
Macnamara waited in the car, and leaped out to open the door as soon as Sula appeared. She tried not to run over the ornamental bridge and down the path, and instead managed a brisk, military clip.
The car hummed away f
rom the curb as fast as its four electric engines permitted, and made the first possible turn. By the time the vehicle had gone two streets, Sula had squirmed out of her military tunic and silver-braided trousers. The blouse she’d worn beneath the tunic was suitable as casual summer ware, and she jammed her legs into a pair of bright summery pantaloons. The military kit and the blond wig went into a laundry bag. The holster shifted to the small of her back.
The van carrying the extraction team roared up behind, and both vehicles pulled to a stop: Sula and Macnamara transferred to the van, along with the laundry bag. Another driver hopped into the car-he would drive it to the parking stand of the local train, where it could be retrieved at leisure.
As Sula jumped through the van’s clamshell door, she saw the extraction team, Spence, Casimir, and four burly men from Julien’s crew, all bulky with armor and with weapons resting in their laps. Another pair sat in front. The interior of the van was blue with tobacco smoke. Laughter burst from her at their grim look.
“Put the guns away,” she said. “We won’t be needing them.”
Triumph blazed through her veins. She pulled Macnamara into the van, and then, because there were no more seats, dropped onto Casimir’s lap. As the door hummed shut and the van pulled away, she put her arms around Casimir’s neck and kissed him.
She knew that Sergius and the whole Riverside Clique couldn’t have managed what she’d just done. They could have sniffed around the halls of justice for someone to bribe, and probably already had without success; but none of them could have convinced a Peer and a judge to sign a transfer order of her own free will. If they’d approached Lady Michiko, she would have brushed them off; if they’d threatened her, she would have ordered their arrest.
It took a Peer to unlock a Peer’s cooperation-and not with a bribe, but with an appeal to legitimacy and class solidarity.
Casimir’s lips were warm, his breath sweet. Macnamara, without a seat, crouched on the floor behind the driver and looked anywhere but at Sula sitting on Casimir’s lap. The cliquemen nudged each other and grinned. Spence watched with frank interest: Peer and criminal was probably a pairing she hadn’t seen on her romantic videos.
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