by Susan Grant
“So, I’m your associate now? Is that the new, politically correct term for supreme commander? How droll.” The general thrust his weapon into Bow’s hand. The man inclined his head with respect and left, retreating somewhere into the bowels of the White House—with Armstrong’s pistol, a family heirloom! “This associate happens to command your military, your entire armed forces—”
“And I intend for it to stay that way.”
The men exchanged dark glances. The deteriorating, volatile situation had made doubters of them all. “Do you suspect me of plotting a military coup, Julius?”
“Don’t look so insulted, Aaron. These are times of tremendous unrest in our great land. My greatest and most difficult duty is maintaining the integrity of the United Colonies of Earth. Even at the risk of insulting those I trust the most. Especially when they pay me an unexpected visit.”
Armstrong didn’t give him the pleasure of an acknowledgment. “We got her,” he said simply.
Beauchamp’s only outward reaction was the fanning of his fingers on the burled surface of his desk. He was, after all, a master politician. No one else could have steered the UCE on an unwavering course for as many years. “Banzai Maguire. In custody.” He closed his beefy fists, as if eager to get a piece of her himself. “Congratulations are due, General.”
He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “She’s on the way to Fort Powell, estimated time of arrival”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“nineteen thirty. Tonight.”
Beauchamp pushed himself out an arm’s length from the desk. “It will soon be over, this terrible moment in our history.” He seemed overcome by emotion. “We need a trial. Quickly.”
“After I’ve gotten what information I can out of her.”
“Interrogation . . .”
“Yes. No holds barred. Those are the orders I will give my interrogators and their guards.”
The president frowned.
“Don’t act so worried! I thought it was you who wanted her heart on a platter. I won’t kill her before you have your trial. Or at least I’ll endeavor not to.”
“Oh, I’ll see her dead; don’t doubt me on that. Just beware of turning her into a martyr, Aaron. She’s enough of a legend, unwarranted as it is.”
Armstrong nodded. “Agreed. But she’s more dangerous alive. As long as she lives, it gives the rebels hope that they will succeed. She provides a link to the past, a past without a United Colonies of Earth. We must sever that connection—and quickly.”
“Arresting her, silencing her, isn’t enough, General. Execution for high treason is the only answer.”
“After a full military tribunal, of course.”
“Of course.”
The men paused to contemplate the trial and its inevitable findings.
“We need that trial, Aaron. Don’t forget. The citizens will expect it.”
“You’ll have your trial. I promise you that.”
“With Banzai Maguire in the courtroom, not watching the proceedings from the intensive-care ward.”
Armstrong inclined his head. “I would say that gives me quite a bit of latitude.”
The men smiled at each other.
Beauchamp’s chair swiveled around and he cast his gaze out the window that faced east—faced the Han Empire. “It troubles me that the second pilot eludes us. We know both were shot down together. Air force archives speak of witnesses who saw both captured by the same individual, who died, presumably, when the underground lab was destroyed in the war. If one pilot was there, it follows that the other should be, too. And yet we haven’t found her.”
“We will.” Armstrong was sure of it. “No word from our man in the royal palace?”
“Hong? No, the minister has had nothing for me,” Beauchamp snarled. “And so we wait. Kyber had better not be hiding her. He’s played his game of one-upmanship too many times. It could very well bring us to war.”
“It would not be wise to open another front until we’ve secured this one, here in our own land. Let the unrest in the Kingdom of Asia and around the world do the job for us until we’re ready to finish it.”
Beauchamp grabbed a cigar and bit off the tip, spitting it onto the floor. “The barbarian bastard. He makes me appear the fool.”
“And I no less of one.”
Beauchamp turned abruptly, the cigar clamped between his teeth. “How is your boy?”
Armstrong’s fists clenched and unclenched. “To be frank, I expected him to arrive home in a flag-draped box. Tyler has more lives than a cat, it seems.”
“So I hear.”
The men scrutinized each other. Neither wanted to touch the incident with the covert operative who’d died trying to put a bullet through Banzai Maguire’s head—after falling short of doing the same to Ty. Armstrong thrust his hands behind his coat, where he could make fists with impunity. With a powerful effort, he transferred his anger to his words. “I will find the second pilot and bring her here.”
Beauchamp clamped his teeth around his cigar. “And if Kyber has Cameron Tucker?”
“If the charming prince couldn’t hold on to the first pilot, how will he keep the second?”
Beauchamp’s smile bloomed behind a cloud of smoke. “Indeed, General. Indeed.”
Chapter Seven
“Your Highness. The pilot has been located.”
Prince Kyber, ruler of the Han Empire, lifted his gaze from the shapely woman soaking his feet in a bowl of hot water to meet the gaze of his chief of security. Nikolai Kabul appeared somewhat breathless. It wasn’t at all typical of the all-business, ascetic man he’d known since they both were boys—a friendship between a child of royal blood and a streetwise commoner that had somehow survived the years. “Excellent, Niko. The news pleases me. I’ll read the full report tomorrow at the morning briefing.”
A single sapphire on Nikolai’s fez glittered in the war room’s cold overhead light, but the man said nothing.
“Your silence tells me that I did not give you the response you expected, Niko.”
“I assumed you’d be . . . more surprised.”
“I’m simply glad the situation is over.”
Nikolai pressed his lips together in another gesture of frustration.
“But of course it displeased me greatly, losing a top fighter pilot in a midair collision caused by human error. And over the Himalayas, no less, making it difficult for search and recovery to do their job. Difficult but not impossible. It’s why I appear more relieved than surprised by this swift conclusion to the affair. Pass along my praise to the team for a job well done. And as soon as the pilot is healed, have him sent to me for a little career counseling. He is due for a change of vocation, perhaps as a street-sweep driver in Macao. Fighter craft are tools of defense, not playtoys.”
Speaking of playtoys . . . Kyber exchanged a smile with the pretty woman massaging his right hand and forearm with fragrant oils. She had a way with her fingers. Had he invited her to his chambers before? He couldn’t recall. He pulled her down for a kiss. No, she didn’t taste familiar, but it was hard to be sure. There had been a parade of females warming his bed—and his dining table, swimming pool, and baths—since Banzai had disappeared into the ether.
Kyber set the woman back on her feet to find Nikolai watching him, his eyes ablaze. “What is it, Niko? You appear fairly ready to explode.”
“Not the downed YR-55 pilot. The one who has evaded us. You know of whom I speak. I cannot say more until we are alone.”
Banzai Maguire! Prince Kyber heard a thud to his right, accompanied by a small whoosh of wind and tinkling jewelry. He realized that in his shock, he’d thrown the manicurist to the floor.
Grabbing the woman’s hand, he tugged her to her feet. “Are you certain?” Quickly he locked his jaw. He despised the anger in his tone as much as he did the hope. Banzai . . . She’d routed him, that one, knocked him out with a nerve stunner. And then she’d disappeared with that imperialist jackass pig Armstrong.
Kyber rubbed the b
ack of his neck. Perhaps it was best that his memory was wiped clean of the encounter itself. All he remembered of that day was waking back in the palace with an aching head and double vision, surrounded by attentive servants and a very angry Nikolai. Rebels had gotten Banzai out of the kingdom, he’d learned that much, but where she had gone after that, he didn’t know. She’d been missing ever since, but, thank goodness, hadn’t shown up in the UCE. It would be a mistake, a deadly mistake, if she defied his advice and did so.
“Off with you.” Kyber waved the servants away. Suddenly the company of a female, any female, felt like a sliver under his skin.
As soon as the servants were gone, Kyber turned his attention to his security chief. “So you found the wayward American. Where was our Banzai hiding?”
“No, Your Highness, the wingmate has been located. First Lt. Cameron Tucker. Scarlet.”
Kyber recoiled. “These woman legends from the past who seem to be infesting abandoned underwater caves, they’re a plague, I tell you. A plague!”
Nikolai started to say something and then stopped.
“What, Niko? You have never held back your opinion from me. Don’t start now.”
The chief stiffened his back. “I thought you would have been more excited by the news.”
“Why, so I can repeat what was an unpleasant experience? Banzai took advantage of my generosity, only to cast me aside with little more than a few hollow words of thanks. Prince Kyber of the mighty Han Empire, ruler of all Asia, does not offer favors for nothing, Nikolai. From Banzai, that is exactly what I received.” He spat out a curse. It was a weakness on his part, forming an attachment to Banzai Maguire. A foolish error. He never should have allowed himself to feel affection for her. One thing he could say, however, was that he never made the same mistake twice.
“I do have some intelligence images I would like to show you in more secure quarters, my lord. Minister Hong will join us in the war room.” The security chief’s eyes tracked down to Kyber’s feet. “Will you be soaking much longer?”
That was when Kyber realized he was standing in a shallow bowl of steaming water with rose petals whirling on top.
With disgust, he splashed out of the bowl. “Why do the women always insist in dousing me with such delicate scents? I am not a delicate man!” He was taller and more ruggedly built than even his father and grandfather. His mother claimed he owed his build to his Scots genes; his father, back in his lucid days, would argue that the Mongol Khans had provided the DNA in question. While Kyber considered Genghis a few too many generations removed to make an appreciable impact on his bloodline, he was certain that neither the clan chieftains nor the Mongol warriors in his family tree would approve of his marinating in flower petals.
He strode to his bathing pool and dove in, eager to rinse off the perfume. The water was crisp and cool, and it braced him, erasing the last traces of mental dullness left from the plum wine the women had poured for him. Surfacing on the opposite side, he pushed on extended arms out of the water. Without slowing, he grabbed a fresh robe off a hook on the wall of mirrors, wrapping it around him as he walked up to a wall—and through it. It was an illusion made by computer—trillions of them.
Nikolai followed him into his private chambers, leaving the mirrored wall rippling like the Lake of Heaven near the palace he maintained in Paekdusan, far to the north. Kyber preferred his summer palace to this grander one in Beijing. There he enjoyed the sharp scent of the forests and the seclusion of the mountains. Yet Beijing was where the seat of the government conducted its business, and where his subjects expected him to be. Out of a royal obligation to serve his people, and out of respect for the long line of courageous ancestors that got him here, he found predictability translated to stability, necessary to ensure the future of the empire. It was why every autumn after Kingdom Day he dutifully returned home.
Kyber burst into the war room, trailed by the security chief. The quartz-glass-and-steel decor, created to his specifications, suited the room’s use, lending it the cold, powerful, and masculine atmosphere he desired. Monitors covered the walls, giving views of international news as well as scenes from around the palace, inside and out, from the numerous security computers embedded in the structure.
“Hong,” he said, acknowledging the ubiquitous presence of Minister of Realm Affairs Horace Hong before turning to face his security chief. There were few in Kyber’s life whom he trusted as implicitly as Nikolai Kabul. For God’s sake, he had his reasons for placing trust in so few. The emperor, his father had almost been murdered while eating breakfast, and every time Kyber viewed the now wasted man, it reminded him that trust didn’t ensure long lives for monarchs. It was wisest not to give it at all. “We tore apart that cave searching for Scarlet, and yet we found nothing. Banzai doubted me when I told her there was no sign of her sister fighter pilot, not now or in the past. And yet Scarlet has miraculously appeared—and under our very noses!”
“Not exactly. We found her in Mongolia.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. Intelligence imagery pinpoints her location in the village of Khujirt.”
“Khujirt.” Kyber frowned, concentrating. “I know the place. It’s near the springs.” Old memories slid down behind his eyes—of a vacation to the region as a child. He’d traveled there with his mother, a devotee of hot mineral springs. Kyber recalled his fascination with the remote and rugged scenery, the taiga forest, the ibex and lynx he’d viewed there, and particularly the ancestors of age-old nomadic tribes who raised livestock at the edge of the forests. He’d never forget the day he broke away from his bodyguards to chase after a shepherd near his own age, scampering beside him and his herd of stinking, flea-infested yaks through fields of wildflowers before being rounded up by the empress’s angry staff. For a few hours he hadn’t been the crown prince; he’d been a boy. “They’re farmers. Simple people. Impossible that they revived her. They don’t have the technology.”
“Difficult, yes, but not impossible. This has contributed to her less-than-ideal condition. Our first observations showed her walking the paths in the area assisted by crutches. Apparently she is now walking under her own power, or mostly.”
“But in Mongolia. How did you learn of it?”
“Via a pair of Rim Riders.”
“Good! Find out their names. Put them in for a bonus. Better yet, send them to me so that I may praise them in person. Now, tell me how this came about.”
“There was talk of a woman new to the area—a badly injured woman. That she was blond, unusual for someplace so distant from an urban center, only intensified the curiosity. Rumors started and spread. Our Rim Riders overheard them, of course, and passed along the information to intelligence as part of a routine report. I saw the mention and thought it was best to investigate. We took satellite pictures over a period of several weeks. But only yesterday could I say I was certain of her identity.”
“It’s her, Your Highness,” Minister Hong chimed in. “Her likeness matches the file photo we have.”
Kyber had seen the same archived photo as the men. He summoned a mental image of Cameron Tucker. She shared little in common with Banzai, physically. In fact, she resembled more a hothouse flower than a warrior.
All the more reason to stay well clear of her.
Kyber opened a closet. Since his duties later that day would take him outside, he donned black leather body armor trimmed in furs. Nikolai was dressed in an identical way, as were the rest of the soldiers and palace security. All that separated Kyber in appearance from his men was the platinum armband he wore around his upper right arm. The snake was a symbol of the Han Empire. Other than that one small concession, of which he was proud, he abstained from the fanciful trappings of royal garb. He left that to his mother, Corrine, who loved to dress the part, going as far as outfitting Kyber’s father daily, even as he lay in the far reaches of the palace with no more awareness than a vegetable.
Kyber buckled his belt. “Why have we not kn
own of the existence of the second pilot until now?”
“Outside involvement,” Nikolai guessed. “Someone took her before we could.”
“Why were there no signs of tampering in the cave?”
“If the cryopod was hidden in one of the more heavily damaged areas, it’s possible our search party overlooked it in their haste to rescue Banzai. In the gap between their departure and return, someone with the knowledge and motivation could have gone in—and gotten Scarlet out.”
“And brought her to Mongolia? Who dares to meddle so brazenly in realm affairs, Niko? Tell me who they are!”
“They’re farmers—”
Kyber gave an incredulous snort. “And I am Winston Churchill.”
“All we know so far is that they’re indeed working on a communal farm. Collectives like these are quite common in the area, as you know. This one is small. Approximately a dozen people living there as permanent residents, others coming and going. Besides farming, they maintain a local hot springs and a pay-as-you-go temple.”
Kyber made a sound in his throat. “Paying for divine intervention. If money could buy God’s answers, I’d be a god myself.” And his father would be conscious and alive, relations with his younger half brother D’ekkar would not be what they were now, shattered by scandal. And Banzai would be warming his bed, not Tyler Armstrong’s.
“So far, I haven’t found any connections between them and the Shadow Runners—or any other rebel organization.”
Shadow Runners, Kyber thought with a growl. The radicals with whom D’ekkar had become involved while in prison. They were antimonarchy, antitradition—antieverything, it seemed. Having never once stated clearly their objective—besides wanting to make trouble—the Shadow Runners had so far done little more than irritate him like a splinter not yet worked close enough to the surface of the skin to be plucked out. Yet he wasn’t complacent enough to dismiss them. If they ever became better organized, the group could prove to be a problem.
“I’m relieved to hear rebels aren’t openly behind this, Nikolai, but now that the woman is mostly healed, why has she remained in such a godforsaken place? Is she hiding from me?”