Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  “That will buy us a shot,” he said, maneuvering the yoke. “Donna, share weapons control. You see ‘em. You take ‘em.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “How did you react so quickly?” Leta asked.

  “I saw them coming.”

  She nodded.

  The two raptors arced wide across the canopy.

  “There they are,” Jazz said. “Go get ‘em.”

  Abby swung his head back then forward again. “Are you back?”

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” Jazz said. “This place is amazing.”

  Abby curled his lip back and pushed the yoke down.

  The raptors flew in a predictive pattern. They pulled around for another attack, then switched to evasive. Abby recognized one of their maneuvers. The pilots were Maro, or at least using a Maro baiting tactic of sacrificing a craft. He wasn’t falling into the trap. Instead, he turned the trap on them.

  “Donna, I changed my mind. Give me full weapons control.”

  “Why are you doing that?” Leta asked.

  “Because,” Jazz said, “if Donna leads with fire, she’ll give away her course. The way they’re positioned, they’re waiting for it.”

  Abby grinned. Jazz was back, really back, and recognized what was going on as well as he did.

  Jazz added, “They’re probably wondering why they can’t get you off their tail. It’s like you know where they’re going to be before they do.”

  Abby did know, and now he was ready to make the move they wouldn’t see coming. He would dive, let them arc, then go for the bait.

  He did just that.

  The Delta veered and dropped left as the lead of the two raptors flew a wide arc around the front of him. He pulled up just as the lead was directly at his twelve, then, knowing that the wingman would brake to take him, broke first.

  In rapid succession, two silent bolts lashed out from the Delta Wing’s particle cannon, wrapping the raptors in tight nets of electric blue arc light. The ships crumpled, then vanished in a loud concussion as the void created by their shifting particles was instantaneously filled in by the surrounding Arcadian air.

  “Phew,” Abby said. “Donna, new ETA to Mahayana?”

  “Five minutes, Commander.”

  “What should we expect?” Leta asked.

  “That they’re expecting us.”

  46

  Abby was unsure whether the porter who greeted them in the orchard was the syn who had welcomed them the day before. That the stone on this Peter’s collar was green, just as the other’s had been, meant nothing, really. Darya Bedrosian had told them that the colors of the trackers represented the department they were assigned to and nothing more. Peter, the new or the old, offered the same cordiality and beverage service, but without the slightest hint of familiarity, which made Abby doubt he was the same. Abby attempted to tickle the syn’s brain. There was nothing there, there most never was with mortal syns, merely the common simple sense of innocence. Syns with too much of a certain type of brain activity were ‘reallocated’ upon detection. He was especially sure that was true here in Arcadia. Then again, maybe Peter wouldn’t have anything to share because he couldn’t remember the day before. A fish swimming in a bowl, amazed at every new discovery.

  Leta lifted the perspiring glass of water to her lips and peered through the orchard trees toward the buildings beyond. When the rim covered her mouth, she chin-chipped, “I expected a welcoming party.”

  “Not in Arcadia,” Abby answered. “Too crass. The Elites pride and hide in civility.”

  Jazz grinned and threw a wink her way. He and Abby had wasted no time acclimating to Arcadia. The jackets and ties were off before they’d entered the glider, and before they exited the top, buttons were undone and their sleeves rolled midway up their arms.

  With a shared nod, the three took the porter’s direction, same as the day before, and headed toward the path that would take them to Winslow.

  Abby glanced over to Leta by his side, then to Jazz across from her. The paleness of the Homeland across their faces, Leta’s body-tight white uniform, he and Jazz’s tuxedo-cut white shirts, as formal as any agent tunic they’d ever worn. He wondered if he and Leta had looked as monochrome among the saturated hues of the Arcadian Plane on their earlier trip as they did this morning.

  He noticed the way they walked in rhythm, sharing strides. Mortals tended to fall into step. Umbra couldn’t resist; they were wired that way, Shadows. Since the Bureau mods were based on planar tech—and planar beings—agents were instilled with the same preternatural instinct. A talent in pursuit but a flaw when grouped together.

  The rhythm of their walk wasn’t their only tell. Leta’s low-hung dual holsters angling her weapons off her hips, he and Jazz’s blades tight to their belts, the thousand-yard stares, the loose swing of their arms—there was no mistaking the three were Bureau.

  Regardless of the mods, focus was hard to maintain in the pureness of the orchard and the gardens that followed. The threat of a sniper—a Maro shimmered as a Goliath in a high window over a hedge—kept Abby from the fragrance of the dew-covered fruit dangling from the orchard trees and the bright green of the lawn bordering the walkway.

  Jazz froze when they passed through the hedge to the fountain in the first courtyard.

  “That’s a lot of water,” he said. His eyes fixed on the spouts arcing high above his head.

  “Yeah,” Abby said, “and it’s real.”

  This was Jazz’s first trip to Mahayana, and Abby understood the sight of the water was astounding. Less than twenty-four hours before, he’d been as bemused. He still was. The large jeweled droplets that broke away from the upward streams appeared to have somehow become clearer than the day before, and, if possible, hung in the air a bit longer then he remembered before falling into the pool below.

  “And it’s real,” Jazz echoed. “Not a projection.”

  Abby nodded. “There are a few more up ahead.” He slapped Jazz on the arm, shrugged his lower lip, then continued forward.

  “Really,” Jazz said as he too went to the next courtyard.

  The courtyards had obviously been designed to impress, and they did. The iridescent-colored hummingbirds of the bloom-filled courtyard again marveled Abby and Leta, and this time Jazz as well. They couldn’t resist stopping.

  “Those are hummingbirds,” Jazz said. “You know that, right?”

  “Uh huh,” Abby answered.

  “Hmm.”

  Jazz didn’t need prompting this time. After the three let a minute slip, they moved on to the last courtyard.

  Peter was waiting next to the waterfall, at least a version that worked in the house. He lightly bowed as the three approached and gestured a welcome into the parlor. Jazz chin-chipped, “Syn, right?”

  Leta replied, “One of many.”

  “Right this way, please,” Peter said in a copy of the previous tone and manner. “You may wait in the parlor until Mister Winslow is ready to see you.”

  The three nodded in turn as they passed through the glass doors.

  Abby chin-chipped, “The room is bugged.”

  “I’m sure,” Jazz replied. Then aloud, he said, “Captain, how were you able to control this man?”

  “Fortunately, we met with Bedrosian before he identified every antiquity in the room,” she said.

  Abby smiled. He didn’t feel the need to mention that he actually had identified every piece. He didn’t have to; Jazz would’ve known that he would be driven to, not merely due to his Bureau Boy training, more as a compulsion. Abby had been an academic when they met, and they’d been friends for over a century.

  “If you would like to freshen up, there is an area for each of you through this corridor,” Peter said, gesturing to the first of the two archways on the sidewall.

  “Thank you,” Jazz said.

  Peter gave another light bow then exited through the second archway.

  Jazz picked up an onyx statuette of a gladiator fighting a lion.
“So, what happens next?”

  Leta had the small porcelain girl in her hand once again. She glanced up at Jazz and lifted her brow. “We wait.”

  47

  The three didn’t wait long. Within a minute of Peter’s exit, Winslow entered through the same far door, his hands clasped to his chest and a wide, open smile across his face.

  “Abby, Captain Serene, you’ve returned already,” he said, then shot a curious leer toward Jazz, “and you’ve brought a friend.”

  “This is Jazz,” Abby said.

  “What a wonderful name. Jazzuh.” His eyes flashed wide with the over-enunciation. “I like that. How was your trip, Jazzuh?”

  “Fine,” Jazz said. “Thank you.”

  Winslow nodded.

  Abby had expected Winslow to enter the room with a syn or two by his side, perhaps the armed goliaths. But Winslow greeted them with the same pleasing demeanor as he had the day before.

  “Actually,” Abby said, “the trip was a little rough. We had a problem with the escort.”

  Winslow pursed his lips and clenched his interwoven fingers tighter together. “What escort?”

  “You didn’t send an escort?”

  “No, I apologize. I would’ve. For some reason, I wasn’t informed of your arrival until you landed in the orchard.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Syns aren’t as bright as they should be. Tsk, tsk, tsk. An announcement never would’ve been missed on the old Upper.” He raised his brow and waited for Abby to agree. When Abby nodded, Winslow cocked his head to the side to peer behind him. “Do tell me. Where is my Jasper?”

  Abby, Jazz, and Leta shared a shrewd glance.

  With a rapid breath, Abby slipped out in chin chip, “Read?”

  Leta’s instant response flew into his head. “Nothing,” she said.

  “Not with us,” Abby said aloud.

  Winslow’s face fell sullen. “No?”

  Abby felt as if he were speaking to a child rather than the brutal capitalist he once knew. “I believe the Jasper never left the estate.”

  Winslow’s chin slowly drooped, drawing his head to a tilt. Long seconds passed before he responded. Then, in a slow drawl, he repeated Abby’s words. “The Jasper never left the estate.”

  Abby had never known a young Winslow, and this dumbfounded man was barely recognizable, not the confident capitalist elite who had treated the university and the Bureau as mere extensions of his reach, tools to be called upon when needed. Winslow’s tongue rolled into his cheek. Twenty seconds passed as he swiveled the tip around, the glaze in his eyes begging Abby to question if he was still with them at all. When Abby was about to speak, Winslow abruptly slammed his lips shut.

  “Hmm,” he said. The strength in his voice returned. “Abernathy Squire, you are the best. Still here in Mahayana, you say?”

  Abby nodded.

  Winslow continued, “You know, Doctor Bedrosian advised against my special request for your help.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Oh, yes. She said you were out of the Bureau too long, that we wouldn’t see you again after yesterday.”

  “Really,” Abby said. He flashed a side glance to Leta.

  “She even wanted to bring in some…” He cleared his throat, then whispered, “Private contractors.” He then wobbled his head as if he’d just muttered something unspeakable. “I knew better, though. You are the best, an agent with the knowledge to find anything. Wait until we tell her. Still on the estate. She will be surprised.”

  “I bet she will,” Abby said. “You think we can tell her now?”

  “I suppose.” Winslow’s eyes went wide. “Yes, that’s a splendid idea. Let’s go tell her.” He turned back toward the archway from which he’d entered and raised his arm to invite them to follow.

  Abby shrugged at the other two and followed the already exiting Winslow.

  “Her office is right through here,” Winslow told them, walking past the wide double doors of a large sitting room that Abby thought could’ve been pulled, piece by piece, from one of the Meg’s cultural museums. Winslow continued to babble on. Abby paid little attention; he couldn’t help himself. The objects in the well-lit room came alive with augment overlays, all of the furniture North American and European, all late nineteenth and early twentieth century. In the two seconds he took to pass the doorway, he couldn’t verify the authenticity, but he was sure there were no forgeries. A time capsule that held as much wealth as any of the Meg’s great vaults, a fortune vast enough to feed any one of the small slum cities that surrounded the Meg. One room of many in Mahayana. A room he doubted Winslow ever used.

  Darya Bedrosian’s tour had led them below the estate. Abby and Leta had seen a large amount of Winslow’s treasure, but mostly they saw the institutional sections of Mahayana: the hangar bay, the gardens, the cafeteria. This direct walk through the topside floor showcased the past. To their left, the single doors were closed, but to their right: assorted lounges, a library, a music room, a glass roof arboretum, all pulled from the cultural motifs of some of the Homeland’s great ages. The rooms in which they had waited before were jumbled in style; this indoor gallery walkway was a pathway through history. By the time they reached the closed wooden door at the far end of the building, Abby had almost forgotten why they were following Winslow at all.

  Winslow stopped at the door, raised his hand high, and knocked.

  “Doctor Bedrosian. May I see you? I have some news.” He swung his head back toward Abby, Leta, and Jazz and grinned.

  “Yes, Mister Winslow. Please come in.”

  Winslow turned the knob and entered the large office. The three followed.

  The three drew quickly, their blades wielded high. A blast escaped Abby’s weapon and dissipated midair above the large wooden desk, less than a meter from his target.

  “Abby!” Winslow screamed. He swung his hand toward Abby’s wrist in an effort to swat the blade away. “You almost shot Mister Chauncey.” He swung his head back. “Doctor Bedrosian, are you okay?”

  Darya was okay. She was smiling from a seat behind the desk, leering, as was the massive bull Maro who stood by her side. Winslow had called the crimson beast Mister Chauncey. The Maro possessed features few others had: scarlet irises encircled by black sclera, and large ram’s horns curling up and around the sides of his skull. Abby had seen few Maro in his life with these distinct features, the features of a strong aristocratic Maro bloodline, features of the few that lived long. Abby recognized this beast, though he knew him by another name, for many of the old went by many names.

  This Maro’s name was Valon.

  48

  The castes of the Maro are based on a simple collection of rare attributes, longevity being the greatest of those. Valon was young for a leader, merely centuries old, but old enough that his innate skills had neared a peak. His enhanced telekinetic ability allowed him to generate a shield around himself. That ability made Abby’s attack futile this time and in the past, during the battle which had cost him his spine.

  Abby’s stomach twisted, worse so when the beast who ripped out his spine spoke. The deep, crisp timbre—unchanged over the long decades—resonated across the desk, through Abby’s chest, and sent a quiver and burn down the flesh surrounding his prosthetic. “I would suggest you let your blades rest.”

  On Valon’s word, two Goliaths entered from a side chamber, and two others shifted into view in the hallway behind. The center of Abby’s stomach pulled tighter. In the past, he wouldn’t have slipped. He didn’t shift to hunt anymore. In the Homeland, shifting spectrum was a matter of the environment, a way of dodging the pollution of the fog, the adverts, and whatever was being tossed into the air from the ever-constant brush with the population. The Arcadian Plane was reserved for the Elite due to the freedom from contamination. He had no impulse to shift, but that same simple purity that led him to that lull was a mask of deception. He should’ve realized Mahayana was crawling with Maro beyond the realm of sight. They’d let the Maro surrou
nd them.

  Abby cocked his head to the side, opened his jaw, and, with a gulp, bit into his pride. The fuchsia flame of his blade retracted back to the hilt. He clipped it to his side. Leta and Jazz did the same.

  “Valon,” Abby said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Are you really surprised?”

  Abby shook his head. “No, not really. We ran into some friends of yours up top.”

  “Who is Valon?” Winslow asked. “Why did Mister Chauncey answer you? How do you know each other?”

  “So I heard,” Valon said, disregarding Winslow. He curled his lip away to what was not quite a sneer, then drew a hiss of air past the white wall of fangs. This wasn’t so much a threat as contemplation. The color within the beast’s horns swirled greatly as he mildly tilted his head. “Good news like you travels fast.”

  “So you know why we’re here?”

  Valon let loose a deep chuckle, then said, “I know why they are here, and I know why you are here.”

  Abby felt a stab in his cranium, Valon attempting to reach in. In his peripheral, he saw Jazz clench his jaw and Leta’s eyelids briefly close. He and Jazz had nanos protecting their psyche; Leta’s was organic, and Abby was guessing not up to par with Valon’s.

  He could sense Leta struggling and wished Valon would stop.

  Abruptly, Valon straightened his back and appeared to lift himself a half meter into the air, an illusion sufficient in alarming even the Goliaths and Doctor Bedrosian.

  “What just happened?” Leta asked.

  Valon leered toward Leta. “It’s nothing,” he said. “We will continue as scheduled. Bring them.” Without making eye contact again with Abby, he exited to the side chamber.

  A warm rush flooded Abby. Not DMT, not a shift, not an echo, simply mortal adrenalin. He wasn’t sure how, but he, not Leta, had shut Valon down, had chased him from the room.