by Ada Harper
It was just like a gravitational tilt. Mercenary shoulders shifted, centering on her. One to her right slid off his glasses and Olivia could see his pupils blown, mouth slightly parted as he took an unconscious step. Then another. Closer.
Olivia’s hand tightened on the remote between her fingers. She pressed the button. A creak startled the soldiers out of their daze. The pen locks disengaged, doors slowly tilted off their hinge. Creatures stirred behind her. The wraicath at her back was the first to step out. The black mottle of its fur drew a startled murmur of unease from the mercenaries. And Olivia’s mind was a low pulse of go, go, go.
And then the plan went sideways. Olivia chirped as she went down, knocked face-first into the dirt. The wraicath was a velvet weight crushing her back, breathing foulness over her shoulders. Olivia’s heart was in her throat, but she forced herself to sink into the dirt, submitting her neck to the teeth. She’d lost track of what the Syndicate mercs were doing.
“I...” Her eyes teared. She strained to breathe with four hundred pounds of death on her ribs. “I...am not the threat.”
A low growl came from her right, and the cat above her shifted. Olivia risked tilting her head. Familiar silver ruff and gold eyes prowled toward her from between the pens. Zahira?
The wraicath above her didn’t like it, bristling for a stand-off, but then—Lady bless it—gunfire barked an interruption. She would never know if it was a nervous slip of the finger or twitchy idiocy. Soldiers yelled. Predators snarled. The weight on her back dug in, launched away, and chaos broke out in earnest.
She had bruised ribs, if not broken. Facedown, she winced into the dirt as heavy, musky shadows of fur and scale and animosity moved past her. The screams had moved into the estate by the time she got her feet under her. The preserve predators had torn through the mercenaries like wet tissue, and moved like a hunting pack toward the shouts of sweaty prey farther inside the estate.
The air was heavy with blood when she stood. She had to breathe shallow. Warm fur nudged up under her hand until Zahira leaned into her, supporting. Olivia stared. She’d thought the wolf had gone with Galen when he stormed out of Ameranthe. She hadn’t seen her—at least not until she needed her. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”
Zahira let out a low, soft whimper.
Another scream echoed from the dangling doors. Olivia moved stiffly, but tried not to step in anybody’s intestines. Zahira was not so delicate. They ran together back into the estate.
* * *
The armed men had been prepared to subjugate scared nobles and senators, not apex predators of the Caeweld. Her vision swam with a dizzying giddiness as Olivia followed the trail of carnage down the hall. She wasn’t sure if she was lightheaded from the horror or injury, but she kept a hand on Zahira’s shoulder so she wouldn’t slip. The plan had worked. The predators were a wave of muscle, claw, and horn against the startled Syndicate forces. All the beasts and most of the men ignored her. When they didn’t, Olivia struck fast and Zahira followed them down.
A wraicath was unburdening a carcass of its femur when Olivia reached the door to the caricae wing. She pretended she didn’t see the dead man’s finger twitch. The cat jerked and Olivia inched her hands up. “Hey, buddy. That’s all yours.”
The wraicath dropped the flesh and licked its jaws. It eyed the wolf warily.
Her nerves were screaming at her to hurry—she knew the animals could occupy the residence wing but there had to be other forces around the estate. There was just one bloody door between her and the—well, where she hoped the others were being kept. She forced herself to soften her voice. “Thank you, by the way.”
She took a step, and the cat growled a warning. She took another, Zahira grumbled a protest. “Can’t guarantee we won’t chase you off later. Loose wraicath make the maids nervous. But for now... Z and I won’t get in your way if you don’t get in ours.” Another step.
The cat pulled its gaze from its stare-off with Zahira and narrowed it in what Olivia would have sworn was an insulted look. It picked up its leg bone, turned a regal head, and stalked off.
Olivia took one glorious moment to embrace the idea that she was still breathing after this suicidal day. She searched until she found the aetheric card in the guard’s pocket and bypassed the lock on the door. She slipped inside the moment it opened, eager to get out of the carnage.
She was brought up short by cold metal pressed to her cheek. She froze, and it disappeared just as quickly. Maris lowered what looked to be an antique handcannon with a sigh. There was a bleak, ugly bruise blooming across her cheek but she looked more disgruntled than harmed as she took in Olivia’s appearance. Her eyes were flinty as they flicked from Zahira to the ravaged corpse behind her.
“You better not have messed up my carpets.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maris prodded at Olivia’s bruised side with a bit more force than was necessary. Olivia figured it was fair retribution for the carpets. Her nose crinkled as Maris hit the skin with a numbing spray. “I can’t believe they didn’t even cuff you.”
“Nope.” Maris handed her supplies to an assistant as she cleaned up. “They used sedatives. One minute I was consulting with Val on her toddler’s cold, next minute we all woke up in the back room with a headache. Kieran managed to wiggle through the window to the atrium and get us this far. Can’t imagine they thought we’d just stay put.”
“Of course they did. The only caricae those men have encountered have probably been in the program and drugged to the gills.” Olivia’s lips twisted on that thought. There were plenty of red-rimmed eyes and pale faces watching them from couches in the caricae atrium, but no one here was submitting. Zahira had dropped herself in front of the door and slept. “They probably didn’t even realize you’re the royal surgeon.”
“Let’s just hope her highness doesn’t need me.”
“And you have no idea who sold you out?”
“Suspicions, sure, but...” Maris tossed her gloves. She picked up her handcannon again. “Let’s hear your plan.”
“Plan,” Olivia repeated slowly. And then she put together that those wide eyes were watching her, not Maris. Oh, lady’s bits.
“A plan to repel these men and rescue the empress. You made it this far, and you’re the most experienced veteran present,” Maris reminded her with a rueful tone. “But many of us are from Imperial noble families—we know how to at least fire a handgun. We could have the younger ones make a run—”
“No.” Olivia’s mind reeled straight away from something as ridiculous as rescuing the empress and latched on to the details. She shook her head to clear it. “It’s Syn mercenaries running this. They’re treating you like war spoils. Caricaes are...practical assets, back in the Syndicate. You’re not a threat as long as you’re locked up here, but if they lose control they’ll probably shoot. Once the estate...once the CHARIS thing is back online they’ll have no trouble tracking us down if we hide. The best option is to have most of us remain here until we get control of that system.”
Maris’s smile inched up a notch. “So you do have a plan.”
“I don’t—” Olivia stopped, chewing on her lip as she caught Kieran watching her. He had one of the younger children asleep on his lap, and he stared at her over the kid’s frizzy curls, eyes tired but eager. They couldn’t run. And kids like Kieran weren’t allowed to exist in the Syn. She couldn’t let them be taken. She drew a breath. “Half a plan. How does the system reboot work?”
“Hell if I know. Primya.” Maris waved over a dark-skinned woman with tight braids. “You programmed the fix the last time CHARIS went down.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. A technician. CHARIS’s primary technician. She was quite sure if the Syn forces had known that, they wouldn’t have been so hasty stacking caricaes away like gold bars.
Primya wasn’t quite able to look her in the eyes. She studie
d the grain of the table nervously. “If it’s taken this long, the technicians might have locked it down. It’s going to require full authorization to operate again. That means it can only be brought back up with a personal voiceprint ID.”
Olivia nodded. “So they need a person. Who?” Please don’t be the empress, please don’t be the empress.
“The royal family, of course. Or the chairs of the Imperial council.”
Olivia relaxed. “Let’s focus on the council for now—”
“—but none of them are in Ameranthe after the dinner.” Primya looked to Maris for confirmation. She nodded.
“Defense chair Wolvgang went with your duke and the Liar to the marshaling point. The rest of the council is out of district. Ambrose might still be lurking around—” Maris smirked at Olivia’s grimace “—but her highness wouldn’t trust him with his own prick.”
“It’s like she wanted to be attacked. Who is here with the authority to reboot CHARIS?” Olivia asked. Maris looked to the ceiling. To the royal residences. Olivia groaned. “Lady’s tits.”
If Sabine was the only one on the grounds who could raise that shield, then they surely had her prisoner, persuading her for the voice code in ways the Syndicate was best at. Olivia felt a prick of terror. Sabine was also Galen’s sister.
It was easier when she only had one bartender to care about. She spared a panicked thought for Yoshi, but she had to focus. Yoshi in danger, Galen in danger, now Sabine. Olivia’s heart felt splintered and raw. She rubbed her eyes. “Fine. We’re rescuing the empress.” She tried to make herself consider it like she would have any other Whisper mission. But there was so godsdamn little time. “Primya, walk me through the reboot. I need to know exactly what they are trying to get from the empress and what we can do if I don’t die. Maris—map?”
It was immediately evident that their options were limited. Sabine and any valuable non-caricae hostages were probably being kept in the royal residence. Even with the CHARIS system down, the residence was built to be a bunker. The walls were resistant to blasts, the windows bulletproof, even a private vent system. The only thing getting into that residence was electricity and plumbing.
Which left the front door. Olivia rapped her fingers fast on the table as she considered it, as if that’d make the plan any less stupid. The others had been busy, barricading the doors and windows. Olivia hadn’t heard the animals in the hall for a while now. The mercenaries were rallying. She had to do something, now.
She tilted her head. “Do the residences run on the grid or is there a generator?”
Primya tugged nervously on a stray braid. “There’s a backup if the power goes down.”
“How long does that take to kick in?”
“Five seconds?”
Olivia considered. “I’ll need longer than that. Can it be manually overridden? Delayed?”
The technician looked distinctly queasy now. “Yeah?”
“Where?” Olivia gestured to the map.
Primya pointed and Olivia felt the first trickle of the familiar giddiness she always got when she decided on a risk. The generator for the residences wasn’t far, but it was far enough removed from the residence that there were probably not more than a couple guards in that hallway. If they didn’t have reinforcements, Olivia could take them down.
But she wouldn’t.
Olivia nodded to Maris. “Everyone else stays here, but I need to borrow Primya and Kieran. And...”
“Your wolf?”
“Not my wolf.” Olivia didn’t have the time to argue that. With Maris or the wolf that had lifted a large head to whine her complaint. “Zahira stays.”
Maris’s lips were sour without a cigar to clench. “...and?”
Olivia’s stomach twisted in anticipation of the next part. She needed to walk through the front door. “You’re a doctor. Do you keep any stimulant injections on hand?”
* * *
Olivia had never been scruffed the five years she’d been in hiding. She’d certainly never anticipated walking into a scruff willingly. It was a strange experience, having awareness of a body that didn’t respond to your commands. A sliver of thick carpet floated too close to her face. Her toes caught and dragged, forcing the mercenary to haul her up again.
The stimulants had her pulse hammering in her throat like gunfire. It promised a killer headache when she came down. Her head was still a swirl of unwanted soothing sensations, her body still loose and limp, but the drugs fought the worst of the scruff effects. Her body wasn’t her own, but her mind was. She counted the steps through the fog: six long strides from the door to where she hit the ground hard. She groaned as the fog receded. Two voices, thick with Syn accent, talked above her.
“Found her in the west hallway. Stupid bitch rushed me and Laurie with a knife.” Please. As if you could call the dull steel Olivia had found a knife.
A sniff. “Why you bother to bring her here?”
“He said there was a Syn caricae piece lose. This has got to be her, right? There a reward?”
“This is a job! There’s no reward—fuck, look at this mess. Just dump her with the others.”
“Wait.”
That voice was not Syn. Imperial, cultured. Familiar, but Olivia couldn’t place it before a hand fisted her hair and yanked her face toward the lights. Olivia grimaced but got her first good look at the room.
The empress’s quarters were as wide and homey as she’d remembered. Four steps to the left, two steps forward: heavy-looking table. A little past that, a light decorative chair. Two steps to the right, another armed mercenary backing up the one behind her. A guard at the door. Was his gun holstered? She couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure, she—
Her eyes adjusted and the face attached to the hand in her hair came into focus. Olivia sucked in air and froze.
“Yes, this is the one I needed,” Virgil said coolly. “Please watch that she doesn’t move. She’s known to be...feisty.”
Olivia didn’t have to pretend to be dazed as her shoulders were pushed into the carpet again. Senator Ambrose’s quiet brother picked over her with a calm eye. At the party, Virgil had been a shade subservient to his loud, offensive brother. She’d dismissed him. Slim shoulders, eyes and hair the color of forgetfulness. The same man here, still nebbish and unassuming even as armed men killed at his word. Balancing the books.
“Good of you to visit. It would have been a headache if you’d slipped away.” Virgil picked his glove off, a finger at a time. The black leather glistened. Blood. “She was very insistent about it.”
“She?” Olivia asked vacantly.
“Oh, no.” Virgil smiled, faintly amused. “You don’t get to ask questions. I’ll be simply minding you until our reinforcements arrive. But while you’re here, you struck me as a practical woman when you nearly castrated my brother. I hope you’ll talk some sense into her.”
He stepped away, and revealed what was on the couch behind him. Sabine must have been caught unaware. She wore a soft blue cashmere tunic and lounge pants. Her tan skin, the same shade as Galen’s, hid the bruises but not the blood. Black-red liquid seeped into the collar of the tunic, flowing freely from an eye she kept squinted closed.
“Your highness,” Olivia whispered. Sabine’s open eye locked with hers, thick with pain and fury, but she didn’t respond. It wasn’t like Sabine to be speechless. Then Olivia noticed the stiffness of her posture. Her exposed skin twitched and writhed, mottled grey at the joints she could see.
“Lockbots.” Olivia stared, horror mixing with a surprising protective instinct. “You used lockbots on her.”
Virgil shrugged. “Your people do have the cleverest minds.”
It was a Syn technology, a Whisper technology. Tiny designer pathogens that could be injected. They attacked the nerves that controlled muscle movement, repeating the same signal over and over that forced targeted muscles
to contract, locking a target into a particular position until the antidote was applied or their ligaments tore. It was a useful kind of torture the Whispers used on stubborn dissidents. Olivia had never used them, but she’d been exposed to them once, during training so Whisper agents knew the applications of it.
It had felt like an unending scream.
Olivia focused on her inventory. Sabine, three steps forward. Out of commission. Couch, four steps wide, waist high.
“Why?” Olivia asked. “I’d expect cruelty ran in your family, but even your brother would know what the Red Wolf is going to do to you for touching his sister.”
“My brother is no longer burdened by his duties,” Virgil said, and Olivia couldn’t immediately parse whether that meant Ambrose was dead or deposed. Not that she had time or inclination for sympathy. Guards have moved. One at her shoulder, others two steps adjacent now. Virgil crouched down, leaning into her space as he studied her expression. “But shouldn’t you be more concerned about what the Red Wolf will do when I touch his mate?”
Window, three steps behind the couch, curtains drawn. Olivia stared into Virgil’s eyes and began to smile.
The senator frowned. “It’s no use denying it. Your little show with Alais was a good one but even to a genta like me, the bond is obvious. The duke is possessive of his things. And you’re his.”
Metal knickknack on end table. Looks too light but it has a sharp edge. One step from couch.
“I’m no one’s,” Olivia said. “That’s unfortunate for you.”
“For me?”
“For asking the wrong question.” Olivia knew how she looked, knees on the carpet, drenched in adrenaline and sweat, smile swerving manic. “What you should be wondering is what I’m going to do to you.”