by Rhonda Mason
“Really? And what proof do you have? It’s not like you can quote Dolan as your source, not when so many secrets of the IDC and imperial army are tied to your involvement with him.”
“I have other sources.”
“Do you?” She took a step closer to him and he leaned back ever so slightly in his chair. Cocky he might be. Invulnerable? Not against her. “Show me your proof. Tell me why I should quake at your threats.”
He didn’t bother replying. Ah well, it had been worth asking about, anyway. A man like him wouldn’t have gone into the blackmail business without solid evidence. Too bad he wouldn’t brag about it so they knew how to counter his threat.
“Tell me about the Mine Field,” she said instead, switching gears. “Why are the Ilmenans there?”
“Are you going to ask me to death? Real scary, Princess.”
She grabbed him by the back of his neck and slammed his face into the desk, holding it there, then wrenched his right arm behind his back, immobilizing him.
His breath rasped harshly in and out, eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of fear.
Kayla leaned in, pulling his arm higher behind his back. “Maybe I’ll delete some of your precious data.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She squeezed his neck, pressing his face harder into the desk. “Wouldn’t I? You’d never even know. Parts of Dolan’s wonders could be lost forever.”
He stared at her with one eye, judging her resolve.
Test me, you frutter. I dare you.
She wrenched his arm higher. “Tell me what’s in the Mine Field.”
He grunted in pain as she stopped short of dislocating his shoulder. “Fine. Fine, let me up.” She held him down for another second, giving him a taste of the powerlessness she’d felt when he’d held her at pistol-point the other night. When she finally released him, his face was a mottled red-purple. “There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”
“What do you know?”
He huffed, straightening his shirt before speaking. “Two Ilmenan ships came to Imperial Space, not one. Tia’tan’s ship traveled to Falanar to win the Empress Game. The other ship traveled to the Mine Field.”
“It’s a death trap.”
“There’s something in the Mine Field, something big, worth risking the trip.” He rubbed the side of his face that had been pressed to his desk. “I’m not privy to all of Dolan’s research and plans, but he pieced something together to lure the Wyrds with. He counted on the Wyrds’ superior tech to get them through the field safely.”
That might or might not be all he knew. She sensed she wouldn’t get any more out of him today. Time to go.
He tilted his chair, trying not to favor his injured shoulder, his smug smile creeping back. He stared at her like he had all the control in her world. Like she couldn’t end him in a second if she wanted to.
She pivoted on her right foot as if to go, then leveled him with a left side-piercing kick to the chest that hit so hard he was flung from his chair, crashing to the floor. She quivered with the urge to do more, but held herself in check.
“That,” she said, “was for Rawn.”
* * *
“Assassination,” Hekkar said in a flat voice. “You actually suggested assassinating Bredard to Kayla, a woman who’s spent her life training to kill.” He gave Malkor the all too familiar “you’re insane” look.
“She spent her life training to protect,” Malkor corrected, vaguely annoyed with his second in command, “not kill.”
They stood on the maglev train platform in the city’s crown district, not too many kilometers away from Isonde’s townhouse. The humid night air of the city wrapped around them, and at this late hour fog was creeping in.
The other intended passengers stood at the opposite end of the platform, carefully not looking in their direction, which was exactly what Malkor was used to. Normally it was because he was in IDC uniform. The Imperial Diplomatic Corps met with everything from respect to fear to hatred on their missions—everything except pleasure. They had near-limitless jurisdiction and the authority to do, well, whatever they wanted. The IDC got its way but it seldom made friends.
Tonight, though, he and Hekkar were headed across town to the Pleasure District, to a bar members of the imperial army liked to frequent. They were dressed to fit in, and he had to admit that Hekkar, with his red-gold-sunset hair spiked into a fauxhawk and his combination of black on black on black—duster, scarf, outfit—looked unsavory, to say the least.
“It’s not like the octet hasn’t been involved in its share of assassinations,” Malkor said.
“For political reasons, Malk, under orders. To save civilians and depose corrupt regimes.” Malkor knew him well enough to sense the unspoken anger behind Hekkar’s neutral expression.
“Hey, I never said I was actually going to kill the man.”
“Doesn’t mean the idea’s not there, in the back of your mind.” Hekkar knew him too well to deny that. With Kayla’s life on the line, not to mention Isonde’s… “Damnit, Malk. I knew this whole thing was a bad idea from day one, from that first moment when we saw Shadow Panthe in the Blood Pit. I told you so then.”
Malkor had known the plan to fix the Empress Game had been a bad idea way before that, from the moment Isonde and Ardin had first come to him with it. There just was no other way. There never had been.
Hekkar’s jaw flexed, a sure sign of him grinding his teeth. “First Dolan held the secret over us, now Bredard—and by extension Senior Commander Vega—has you by the balls.” He shook his head. “We’re so deep in this shit we’ll never get out from under it.”
Malkor clapped him on the shoulder. “Well aren’t you a bucket of sunshine tonight.” The train arrived, saving Malkor’s ears from Hekkar’s string of expletives. Hekkar believed in the mission, they all did. Some days, though, it was harder to remember that.
They settled into a car by themselves, everyone else choosing to sit much, much farther ahead. Hekkar wasn’t wrong. The damn executioner’s pistol had been pressed to Malkor’s temple since he had chosen Kayla for the ruse, and everything he did only seemed to increase the pressure. They should have been safe by now, Isonde sitting pretty on her shiny throne and Kayla heading back home. Instead every day brought a new complication, a new twist wrapping him tighter and tighter in this unending stratagem.
The city slipped by as the train sped on, and thankfully Hekkar remained silent on the topic.
They arrived at the Pleasure District and it wasn’t a long walk to find the bar, Henri’s Ghost. Easy to identify it as an army bar based on the clientele coming and going, despite everyone being in street clothes. Some things, like wearing a uniform daily, you couldn’t hide.
The bouncer hesitated while letting them in, clearly uncertain if they were brothers-in-arms or outsiders. Malkor pushed past him before the man could decide.
As far as bars went, it was actually kind of homey. Dim lights, loud music and drunken laughter, sure, but without that ominous air most bars had of “we’re all strangers here, and the wrong look at the wrong guy might start a fight.”
Of course, things would probably change once he and Hekkar were outed as IDC. Imperial army soldiers and IDC agents weren’t exactly close.
He scanned the room as he and Hekkar made their way to the bar. Their entrance had been marked by most with no more than a curious glance, and the bartender smiled, friendly enough, when they ordered beers. Good. The last thing he needed was to cause a scene. It helped that he and Hekkar looked more than capable of kicking the ass of anyone in there, and probably several of them in combination. Tended to encourage people to mind their own business.
“In the far corner,” Hekkar said, “opposite the door.”
Malkor took a swig of beer and glanced in that direction. Sure enough, sitting at a round table with two of his buddies was First Sergeant Carsov, part of the army’s Biomech Crimes division. Beyond investigations, his team also handled high-risk biomec
h containment. Kind of like a bomb squad, except considering the TNV was within their jurisdiction, their job was much, much more dangerous.
Malkor had met the man once before. It had been at the near-catastrophic royal wedding between Ardin and Kayla-as-Isonde weeks back, when Prince Trebulan had tried to release the TNV on all of the empire’s rulers, councilors and elite. An attempt Kayla barely thwarted in time. Carsov was the team member sent in to detect if Kayla had been infected with the TNV, and to free her from the containment foam.
Waiting for the diagnosis had been the longest three hours of Malkor’s life.
At the time, Carsov had been entirely covered in a copper-colored biomech hazard suit. Now, he looked perfectly at ease in a jumpsuit and boots, beer in one hand and a smile on his lips. He was laughing at something the woman beside him said when Malkor and Hekkar arrived at his table.
“Mind if we join you?” Malkor asked, as he pulled out the chair opposite Carsov and sat, Hekkar doing the same.
“Well, well,” Carsov said, still smiling. “If it isn’t Senior Agent Rua of the IDC.” He chuckled and nodded toward the rest of the bar. “Man, are you guys lost.”
Carsov’s friends were considerably less amused by the arrival of IDC agents, and the air at the table took a tense turn.
“We need to talk,” Malkor said, “alone.”
Carsov glanced at Hekkar. “Then why’d you bring a date?”
“He knows the score. These two,” Malkor gestured to Carsov’s friends, “had better not.”
Carsov snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “Oh, that’s right, your threat to send me—where was it again? The deep nether regions of abandoned space if I ever said anything, to anyone, at any time, ever?” He chuckled.
Carsov’s friends looked uncertain, unable to laugh at a joke they didn’t understand and unsure if it was even appropriate with two IDC agents at their table.
“I think I’ll just ruin your career, instead,” Malkor said. That wiped the smile off Carsov’s face. Malkor caught a mutter of “frutting IDC” from the woman beside him. Carsov made eye contact with his friends and nodded to the bar. The two cleared off, shooting hard stares that said “one wrong move and your ass is mine.” Malkor’s gut urged him to reposition his chair to keep an eye on them. Instead, he trusted Hekkar had that covered.
Carsov set his beer down and pushed it away with his finger. “So. Did you come all the way down here simply to threaten me again?”
“You’re the one who brought that up, not me.” Not that Malkor didn’t fully intend to make more threats if necessary.
“What do you want, then?” The man glanced at Hekkar then back to Malkor. Despite the beer on the table Carsov seemed mostly sober, if a little belligerent. Fair enough. Malkor had earned that attitude during their first meeting.
Something behind Malkor caught Hekkar’s attention. It clearly wasn’t enough to worry him overmuch. Still, he pushed to his feet. “I think I’ll mosey on back to the bar for another beer while you two chat.” He gave Malkor a fist bump on the shoulder. “I’ll be back.” In other words, he’d handle it, whatever it was.
“I’m here for information,” Malkor said, when he had Carsov’s full attention.
“What kind?”
The kind that could start a jurisdiction war at the very least, and most likely see Carsov dishonorably discharged for providing it. “Information about the TNV.” Malkor could have gotten that from a hundred people more qualified than Carsov. What he really needed… “Specifically, I need information on Prince Trebulan’s supply of TNV.”
Carsov’s brow lowered.
“It’s classified,” he snapped. So, Malkor had been right—definitely trouble.
“Of course it is. Would I be here talking to you if I could get my hands on the information another way?” The noise level in the bar increased as someone cranked up a rocking song. Malkor moved closer to be heard without shouting over the din. “I know your squad is the best in the Biomech Crimes division stationed on Falanar. And you were the one chosen to go into the arena with the live threat of TNV at the wedding. That makes you the best of the best. Your squad led the investigation on Trebulan, where he got the TNV and how. Shit, you’re the ones that found the other canister he had stashed in Shimville.”
Carsov looked uncomfortable with the recounting of his recent activities. He glanced over Malkor’s shoulder, searching for something, and shifted in his seat when he didn’t find it.
“I need the final report of the investigation into who supplied Trebulan with the TNV.”
“Those findings were reported publicly,” Carsov said, as if that was the end of it.
Malkor lowered his voice. He had to be careful here, feel Carsov out. He’d researched the man before deciding on this course of action, and that led him to believe this was his best bet to get what he wanted. Still, Carsov was a relative stranger, and making assumptions about a person you only really knew on paper could get you killed.
He studied Carsov’s face, alert for any reaction. “Weren’t you, after your investigation, surprised to hear that the Wyrds had been denounced as Trebulan’s suppliers?”
There. There it was—the flinch, barely noticeable in the bar’s dim light. The acknowledgement of Malkor’s implication. He let out a breath in relief. Kayla had been right, her people hadn’t done this. He’d been ninety-nine percent sure, but that last one percent had kept him awake at night.
“Why come to me?” Carsov asked.
“I told you, your squad—”
Carsov cut him off. “No, why me? I have a squad leader with higher clearance, why not go to him?”
Here it was, test time. Time to see if his profiling skills were as sharp as he thought they were. “Because I know you, guys like you.”
“You don’t know shit about me, Agent.”
“Of course I do. Top marks at school, blowing the roof off test scores in biomechanical engineering. Joined the service straight from there, served three tours in the Altair Sector, turning down a promotion because you were holding out for a spot in the elite Biomech Crimes unit. Youngest biomech containment tech, as dedicated to the job as the army could ever hope for, with a penchant for taking big risks if it meant more civilian lives could be saved.
“Your parents are dead—old age—as is your wife, Carian, and your daughter, Ada. They died in a bioterrorist attack on a maglev train. Her parents are still alive, but you’re estranged. They hold you accountable for Carian and Ada’s death. Your love for the job had ravaged your marriage, and Carian was leaving you, taking your toddler daughter and going back to her parents’ home. That’s why they were on the train that day. Her parents still blame you for their deaths, and I sure as shit know you still blame yourself.”
Carsov tangled a fist in Malkor’s jacket and shoved, damn near knocking him from his chair. “You keep my family out of this.”
Malkor held still, hands away from his side, waiting to see if Carsov would throw a punch. The first sergeant looked ready to.
Malkor nodded, indicating he understood, and Carsov released his grip on Malkor’s jacket with a sound of disgust. Aimed at Malkor, or his own loss of control? In the end it didn’t matter. Malkor was striking a nerve. So far he’d been dead-on about Carsov. Malkor straightened his clothes, giving Carsov a minute to compose himself. No more than that, though. Time for the push.
“A tragedy like that,” Malkor said, holding Carsov’s gaze, “it’s a crucible. It makes or breaks you. You either go down in a blaze of rum and flames, like my first octet leader, or walk through the fire and come out reforged. That’s you. I traced your career from that point on. Commendation after commendation. Innovation, bringing new containment methods for biomech hazards to the team, new safety protocols for civilians. They say you’re next in line to lead the squad when your boss retires.”
Carsov reached for the beer he had pushed away earlier, took a sip. “So? What does all of that have to do with classified files fr
om the Trebulan investigation?”
“All of that answers your first question of ‘Why me?’ Your dedication to doing your job at the very highest standards, your dedication to saving lives—squadmates, civilians, strangers—every single day, is why I am here asking you for a look at those files, not your boss.”
Malkor paused for a sip of his own beer, trying to gauge Carsov’s reaction to his speech. Some wheels were turning in the guy’s head, that much he could tell. The right wheels? Malkor needed to connect with him, needed Carsov to think beyond the jurisdictional lines of IDC and military.
“The Wyrds aren’t responsible for supplying Trebulan with the TNV,” Malkor said, driving the important fact home. “I know that, and you know that.” Carsov gave no indication either way. “I need to know who is, and I need to be able to prove it.”
Carsov leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “No way. That file’s classified ten times over. If I hadn’t worked on it myself I wouldn’t even know it existed.” He shook his head again. “Not gonna happen.”
“Carsov, think about it. The Wyrds are a convenient scapegoat. No one has liked them since they decided they were too superior to have anything to do with us generations ago, and that dislike turned to hate when they wouldn’t help us with the TNV.”
“Yeah, and?”
Ugh. Soldiers were as bad as civilians when it came to following politics. “And, now the Ilmenans are being pegged as terrorists bent on assassinating every imperial leader who came to the Empress Game.” He leaned forward, tapping the tabletop as he made his point. “That’s an act of war.”
“Wei-lu-Wei,” Carsov said quietly. “The TNV outbreak. I saw a story on the news that hinted that the Wyrds might be responsible for that, too.”
“And as something of a TNV expert, what do you think?”
“It’s bullshit. The TNV has been following that line of space, carried by traders in a trail that leads straight to Wei-lu-Wei. The only ‘terrorists’ who infected that planet are the frutting scientists who created the TNV years ago.”