by Sean Danker
“Military?”
“Obviously. Out there they might be at risk, but at least they’re still answerable to themselves. If we just let you fly us into Shangri La, no one even gets a chance.”
“You’re going to Shangri La either way,” Cyril said, waving a hand. “You all are. That is, assuming the ritual fails. Which I, as a largely rational person, can only assume it will.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re still planning to go through with it?”
“Of course. I always deliver what I promise. It’s my job. Shangri La is just the backup plan.”
“That’s why you’re still here. Why didn’t you just go to the ship and ride it out?”
“When our friend,” Cyril said, nodding to a painting depicting another of those squids, “fails to show up after I sacrifice you and your friends, then I’ll step back and send the townsfolk on their way.”
“You think he’ll show, then?”
“I won’t be around to see one way or the other; my job was to make it happen, not to watch.”
“Fair enough. You come off a bit cynical for a spiritual leader.”
“It’s been a long couple of years. I don’t like this kind of role-playing. It tires me out, if we’re being honest. I usually get hired to con normal people. People like this—it’s almost too easy. You’d think this would be relaxing, but it really isn’t.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” I told him.
“You knew your people could never reach the ship,” Cyril said, shaking his head. “Nicely done, I suppose.”
“I doubt your people could stop them, but you could still lock them out. Which I’m sure you have.”
“One hopes,” he replied. “Who are you?”
“I think you should give it up.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You can let my friends go; then you can take your ship and be gone before the imperials get here. It’s the only way.”
“By the time they get here I will be long gone,” Cyril said confidently. “The only signal we’ve picked up must’ve been your friends. There’s no one else close enough to matter.”
“You’re underestimating imperial technology,” I warned. “And they aren’t the only leverage I have.”
“Now I’m really curious,” Cyril said, brushing imaginary dust from his necktie.
“You’re forgetting that you’re alone with an Evagardian assassin. Just do what I tell you.”
“Is that what you are? I’m actually inclined to believe you.” He glanced at his old-fashioned chrono. “I know you were acting downstairs, for them as much as for me. Pretending to be so weak that you couldn’t move, so I wouldn’t be watching you when you came up here to look for my terminal. But you weren’t making it all up. Something’s wrong with you. You barely lifted that glass. I don’t think you should be threatening anyone.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think you’re bluffing.”
“You think I’m sitting here because I don’t have the strength to stand.” I put down the glass. “But don’t I?”
I got up and leveled my finger at him.
“Walk away,” I said.
Cyril wasn’t impressed.
“I’ve seen that drama,” he told me frankly. “And while I’m glad you’ve got some culture, we’re already behind schedule.” He produced a pistol and trained it on me.
I wavered, catching myself on the desk.
“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head. He wiggled the gun, indicating for me to approach. “Let’s go. Just relax—you’ll be sedated when we bleed you. All of you will.”
“That’s considerate,” I replied. “So this thing you do—helping people out, making things happen. The facilitator job.” I made my way around the desk, pausing to lean against it. “How’s the money?”
“I get by,” he said, eyes flat.
“Do you need an apprenticeship or something to get into that?”
“It’s an open market.”
“Lots of people out there,” I said, looking up. “They all need things.”
“Just a matter of knowing how to get them.” Cyril shrugged. “It’s not an easy life. I can’t really recommend it.”
“How long have you been pretending to be the shepherd here?”
“Too long. Stop stalling. Let’s go.” He shrugged. “You won’t feel a thing.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said. “I thought you said we were all friends in this community.”
“These people aren’t evil,” Cyril said, gesturing toward the window with the gun. “They just aren’t very bright.”
“What about the ones that hired you to oversee all this?” I asked.
“They’re rich, so they aren’t crazy. Just eccentric. Don’t make me kill you; we need an even number of bodies for the ritual.”
He knew perfectly well I was going to try something. After all, what did I have to lose?
But he didn’t know that Salmagard had given me what I needed. I’d said that it took a long time to feel the effects, but I hadn’t been telling the truth. Was I strong enough for a marathon? No. Was I strong enough for a fight? No. And I didn’t want to fight.
But I was strong enough to take Cyril by surprise.
I lunged, knocking aside the pistol and hitting him with everything I had.
Which wasn’t much. And Cyril wasn’t like the zealots who populated his little community. He knew how to handle himself. Not as well as someone like Salmagard—but he had the advantage of good health, and you can’t put a price tag on that.
Of course, even at full strength, my goal wouldn’t have been to beat him up. What would that get me? We’d still have to deal with his flock; we’d still be stuck here. I’d gotten the SOS out; the mission had been accomplished. There was nothing left to do but buy time—and if I couldn’t buy enough, the altar was waiting.
He caught me and swung me around, slamming me into the wall and hitting me hard in the stomach. Apparently he needed my blood for something, but the rest of me was fair game.
I wasn’t really an assassin.
Yes, I had assassinated people—but that still wasn’t my job. The Empire had real assassins, men and women whose only role was to kill people. That was a real thing.
But I wasn’t one of those. Anyone can kill, but not just anyone can kill, then go onstage and sing and dance in perfect imitation of the man they’d just killed. There was no word for what I was. I was something special, something that fit in somewhere between all the other things.
That should’ve been a sign, long ago, that I was destined to be erased.
Many of my job skills fell under the rather broad umbrella of espionage, but as much as Deilani had loved calling me a spy, that wasn’t exactly accurate either.
I hadn’t been joking when I told Salmagard I could consider a career in acting.
Spy, actor, assassin—it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, I was one of those people. The people who were, at least in theory, serving the interests of the Empress.
And one of those people who couldn’t protect himself wasn’t any good to anyone.
The Empire didn’t care that I didn’t like fighting, or that I’d never been any good at it. They’d made sure I wasn’t helpless.
That was what made this so frustrating. I knew I could handle someone like Cyril, but my body wouldn’t deliver. It couldn’t.
I’d had nightmares like this.
Even if my muscles didn’t want to work for me, I could still use my weight to my advantage. I wasn’t much bigger than Cyril, but every little bit could help. I stayed aggressive, exposing myself to blows that I knew I could take.
We grappled, stumbling into the corridor, where I got the upper hand for a moment, landing the punch I’d been looking forward to ever since I met Cyril. He did
n’t even fall down. This was sad.
I was glad no one was seeing this. Cyril didn’t have the expertise to fight effectively, and I didn’t have the strength. Or the desire. In a strange way, we complemented each other.
I was reminded of the sporting fights from Cyril’s assumed time period, where the combatants simply battered each other with their fists until one of them fell and didn’t get up.
Savagery. Worse, this was pointless. The outcome didn’t matter. But I didn’t like Cyril very much, and I just wasn’t the same person I’d once been. If this had to have a winner, it might as well be me.
I saw my chance and took it near the stairs. I hit him in the abdomen, then in the face with the last of my strength. I wanted to send him staggering back—I wanted him to trip and fall down the steps. Ideally, gravity would do what my body wouldn’t, and put Cyril to sleep for a while.
Instead, my pitiful punch had none of the effect I’d hoped for. He lost his balance, but compensated by grabbing me to keep from falling.
Both of us struck the railing with our full weight. There was a reason civilized people had stopped using wood to build things, in favor of metal and polymer. Wood just wasn’t very sturdy.
The banister gave way with a crack, splinters flying.
We both went over into free fall, bypassing the stairs entirely to crash into the front hall some four meters down. It hurt even more than I’d expected it to.
Cyril and I lay in the wreckage, groaning. Above, his fancy light fixture burned my eyes with its harsh yellow glow and all its silly little refracting crystals.
I didn’t know what he was thinking, but as I blacked out, I reflected that there had probably been a better way for me to play this.
I just wasn’t at my best.
24
SALMAGARD’S hands were tied.
She was riding in the rear seat of a vehicle. There was a strong hand on her shoulder and a restraint across her body strapping her into the seat. She could smell some kind of perfume. She opened her eyes, and there was pain. Pain in her arm, pain in her head. The rest of her body too.
She focused on the big man beside her. He looked nervous, but determined. Seeing that she was awake, he tightened his grip on her.
The town passed on either side. A pillar with spinning red and blue colors flashed by, twirling silently in the night. It was surreal. Complete strangers. An alien antique vehicle.
The state of being a captive. None of it felt real.
There were other vehicles, and people were moving. They were all going in the same direction. Some appeared sleepy and confused, others distressed. A few were injured. Salmagard had been the one to injure some of them.
Many looked excited.
Her head was foggy. She had passed out from oxygen deprivation.
She remembered that the stars overhead weren’t real. That she was in a carbon dome, a simple container being pulled through space. For all the loving detail it had been crafted with, this was nothing but a glorified air pocket.
Now the village lay behind them. They were on the winding road to the church, and there were more people walking along the side of the road with hand lights.
There were lights everywhere.
They pulled around the curve to see the church lit up so brightly that it hurt Salmagard’s eyes.
People were lined up outside the door. They were all here. All of Cyril’s flock.
The driver pulled onto the grass and stopped. The man beside Salmagard held on to her as the door opened, and more hands pulled her out. There were no fewer than three men guiding her.
People got out of the way as they approached the open doors. They looked at Salmagard as if she were a member of a different species. The interior of the church was even brighter. Salmagard had to squint to see the massive, outlandish paintings on the walls and the statue at the front. The pulpit. The altar.
Salmagard was Judeo-Christian. She was familiar with churches, but she’d never seen one this small, and never one this strange.
Diana and Sei were already at the front of the sanctuary, their hands bound, just like hers. Salmagard could feel a muting strip on her throat. Before all this, Salmagard had never thought of herself as having much to say—but she’d taken her voice for granted.
They marched her down the aisle to join the others.
Diana looked dazed and vacant; they’d probably already used chems on her to keep her weak and docile. She was bleeding from her head and looked generally battered. Sei wasn’t much better off.
So they had been able to take down Diana in the end. Impressive. These people weren’t strong, but they were resourceful.
Sei was looking questioningly at Salmagard. She gave a small shake of her head. She had failed, after all.
He swallowed, turning to the altar.
People were talking, but the sounds were hushed. It was a gentle murmur behind them, like a soft breeze. The church’s interior did funny things to sound.
Minutes went by. The three of them gazed at the altar. There was nothing to do at this point but make their peace. It looked like that was what Sei was doing, but it couldn’t have been any easier for him than it was for Salmagard.
Everyone in the Service was ready to die for the Empress or, if they were the sort that didn’t believe in the Empress personally, for the Empire. For Evagardian society, the greatest and most enlightened way of life to come of all humanity. An achievement of staggering power and beauty. At least, that was the way the Imperium presented it.
But that wasn’t what was going to happen here. They weren’t dying for the Empress at all.
The talking quieted a little, but it didn’t go away. The men hovering nearby didn’t say anything, but nerves were thick in the air, and so was excitement.
Salmagard’s mouth was dry, and she could feel her EV trying to slow her heartbeat. It was working. Everything was slowing down. She was crashing from the stim Price had given her, crashing from the beating her body had taken, crashing from the day she’d had. She didn’t mind.
Anything to get away from her thoughts. She wanted a distraction, but even her broken arm wasn’t enough.
There was a small commotion behind them, and Salmagard turned to look, but the men pushed back, keeping her facing the strange circular altar.
The noise level in the church rose somewhat, and she could hear people approaching.
The Admiral appeared beside her, his situation identical to her own. His hands were bound, and there was a muting strip on his throat as well. He looked like he’d taken a beating. But he’d been helpless; why had they done this?
Then she saw Cyril, who looked even worse than the Admiral. A makeshift bandage stood out white over his nose. One of his eyes was swelling shut.
Grimacing, he walked past them and up the steps.
Salmagard stared at the Admiral and realized he was standing under his own power. Something—something wasn’t right.
He gave her a look, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it a strange sort of smile?
Did he have something up his sleeve? Salmagard didn’t understand. She tried desperately to put it together, but something was missing. She was in the dark.
Cyril took his place at the podium and leaned on it heavily. They could hear his ragged breathing clearly over the amplifier.
“Well,” he said, and the church fell abruptly silent. “Friends, this has been an eventful evening. Some of you know what’s going on; some of you don’t. We’ve been honored by a visit from the imperial authorities, despite the fact that we’re not in Evagardian space and they have no grounds to accost us. I know some of you are distressed by everything that’s happened, but I’ve just been told that though Joy’s infirmary is very crowded right now, there were no fatalities. I know this all must seem very shocking, but I think that detail—in and of itself—sends us
a clear message.”
That seemed to send a ripple through the congregation.
“Yes, imperials came here with hostile intent, but didn’t manage to kill anyone? The same butchers that have cut such a bloody swath through history. I don’t know.” Cyril shrugged theatrically. “Sounds a bit off to me. You could be forgiven for feeling like, you know, maybe someone’s looking out for us.”
There were cheers. Salmagard cringed. Cyril went on.
“We’re not soldiers, friends. I truly can’t tell you why the imperials have taken such an interest in us. I suppose we could find out by asking, but I don’t think they’d tell us. And it wouldn’t be our way to compel them to speak. Does anyone here want to torture someone? Show of hands.”
No one moved.
Cyril nodded. “I’m with you. It doesn’t matter what their reasons are. Maybe their Empress doesn’t like competition. Doesn’t matter. In a few minutes, it’s not going to be an issue.”
There was more cheering. Cyril waited patiently for it to die down.
“Have a little mercy on the shepherd, won’t you?” He smiled. “They came at me in my own house. I haven’t hit another person since . . . since I was just a boy. I’d like to go see Joy myself,” he added sheepishly. “But there’s no time for that. We’re moving things forward a bit, friends. Why? Because these people are dangerous. I’m not arrogant enough to think we can keep them in this state. Trying to detain them until the appointed time would put you all at risk. They could escape or something could go wrong, and I’m not willing to chance even one fatality.”
The cheering and applause were quieter this time. Salmagard was clenching the fingers of her good hand so tightly that they felt like they might snap. These people didn’t even think to question Cyril. He had their absolute trust.
“And that’s all there is to it,” he said. “I’m going to get cleaned up. I know some of our primaries were sidelined during the confusion tonight, so understudies need to get dressed and step up. And Joy should be here—she should be able to put us at ease about the good health of our brothers and sisters who were injured—and then we’re going to proceed after she puts our guests to sleep. So if you’re participating, start getting ready now. If not, be patient. We begin in . . .”