by Lyn South
“Maybe to keep her from flying into a window because she’s too focused on her own reflection,” Fagin says.
“More like revenge,” I shoot back. “Carter called in a big marker that someone important owed him because he hates me.”
“Maybe.” Nico nods, considering the options. “But they’ve always given you leeway because you’re, well...you. Taking their best mercenary out of the game just to teach her a lesson doesn’t make sense.”
Fagin sighs. I can tell she’s eager to get back to business. “If we’re done discussing Dodger’s behavioral issues, shall we take a look at the first item on the acquisition list?”
Fagin taps the augmented reality screen. A string of intricately carved wood beads hovers in midair in the middle of the round table.
“King Henry the Eighth’s rosary. These prayer beads are carved out of boxwood and bear the Royal Arms of England, along with...” Fagin highlights several tiny letters carved into the rosary. “Abbreviations for the king and Katherine of Aragon: He8 and Ka.” She pauses and taps the three-dimensional panel again. A holographic video of the king and Lady Anne replaces the rosary. This ghostly image of the real king and his second wife—not a theatrical performance or historical reenactment, but real video from an Observer’s LensCam—shows the couple at church. “Historical holograms tell us that the protestant reformation emerged during King Henry’s reign, and it began as a way to get what he wanted.”
“Lady Anne,” Nico says, cocking his head to one side as he studies the hologram version of the woman. “The king abandoned religion for love.”
“It wasn’t just a romantic consideration,” Fagin replies. The image switches to a tight shot of Henry, all pious and solemn-looking; the very image of spiritual devotion as he lowers himself onto the kneeler. “Henry wanted a son. When wife number one failed to produce an heir, he sought alternatives, and Anne was determined to be more than just the king’s maîtresse-en-titre—”
“The king’s official mistress,” I say, translating.
“Exactly,” Fagin nods. “Being the king’s flavor-of-the-month, as her sister, Mary, had been, was far less than she would accept.”
“It seems stupid to pay a fortune for a relic that has no real significance if the king renounced Catholicism,” I say.
Fagin chuckles. “Dear girl, if you’ve learned anything, by now, it’s that an item is worth precisely what a fanatical collector is willing to pay for it.”
“Yes.” Nico draws the word out, waggling a finger in the air as though he’s a great authority on the subject of odd ducks and their collecting habits. “People will pay a lot of money for silly things. In the twentieth century, hordes of consumers collected tiny stuffed toy animals under the delusion they would later be worth small fortunes if the funny tags weren’t removed.” He waggles his finger in circular motions around his temple. “Crazy.”
“Rumor has it,” Fagin says, “King Henry remained a practicing Catholic in private, and he held this rosary on his death bed. Observers have never been inside the King’s bedchamber during his final days, so this is all conjecture. Our Benefactor is a Tudor aficionado. Anything owned by Henry, his father, or his children is of particular interest.”
“Ours is not to reason why,” Nico says, in a sing-song voice, “ours is but to steal and spy.” He raises his eyebrows in satisfaction as I belly-laugh. Fagin rolls her eyes. “I need to steal a sense of humor for Fagin because that was clever.”
“We should ask for a different pilot before it’s too late.” I poke him in the ribs as I head toward a bookshelf to peruse the ancient book holograms. “With jokes like that, we’d be tempted to boot you from the ship before we’re halfway to England.”
Nico responds by tossing a pomander made of tiny, perfect rosebuds at me.
“Even if you were serious about that request, which I know you’re not,” Fagin says in a wry tone, “ours is an exclusive team. It’s just the three of us. Nobody else. It’s also highly classified. Any gossip gets out and we’ll wind up in prison.”
This bit of news gets my attention. I’m used to secrecy; mercenaries are accustomed to keeping well-paying clients’ secrets. It’s the size of our team that comes as a shock. “That’s unusual. We usually go in teams of at least five or six.”
“Not this time,” Fagin replies. I could be imagining things, but her hands look shaky as she thumbs through a reference book. “It’s just the three of us from here on out.”
Chapter 6
It takes three attempts to get my apartment door’s retinal scanner working, and two more to position my right hand on the biometrics pad so it opens. I’m so exhausted that the simple act of laying my hand flat inside the scanner outline is a Herculean task. The marathon planning sessions and Sim Lab exercises are mentally and physically taxing, but it’s the constant conflict with Fagin that makes me bone-weary more than all the rest of it combined.
Once inside, I notice it’s darker and hotter than normal. I haven’t touched the window tint in weeks, and I had adjusted the enviro controls before leaving this morning. It should be a comfortable sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in here. Instead, the lounge feels as hot as the salt pan of the Namib desert during the dry season.
Damn system must be glitching.
“Computer, report enviro control malfunction to the maintenance department. Priority level one. It’s too damn hot in here. And why didn’t you turn on the lights when I entered?”
The computer doesn’t answer. What the hell is it with the technology today?
“Computer, lighten the window tint in the main lounge by one-hundred percent,” I feel my way along the wall. There’s a full moon, so a little natural light should keep me from running into the solid oak provincial furniture. The computer doesn’t answer. The windows remain dark. “Technology sucks,” I say, muttering as I work my way around the furniture.
There’s a shallow intake of breath on the sofa behind me. It’s so quiet, most people would miss it. Hell, I’m trained in advanced observation skills and I almost missed it.
My fingertips find the bulge on my right calf beneath my leather pants; the blade is almost free from its sheath when a bright light snaps on, temporarily blinding me.
“Apologies, my dear,” a smooth masculine voice says. “Overhead light to sixty percent.”
In the millisecond it takes for the computer to obey, the blade is in my hand. Even if I were close enough to the intruder to chance a stabbing lunge, my depth perception is skewed from the spotlight’s assault. White spots float across my eyes.
“What you’re considering would be unwise,” he says. I may not see him clearly, but he can clearly see my knife.
Cutting someone in my apartment, likely justifiable under the circumstances in the Lawkeepers’ eyes, would generate massive bureaucratic red tape; I’d be buried in paperwork and administrative hearings until the next millennium. Still, I’m not dropping my weapon.
As my eyes adjust, I note that he’s two or three inches taller than my own five-foot, seven-inch frame, and his physique is nothing extraordinary. He’s wiry, but not overly muscular. He has big hands for a skinny guy, and I wonder if they’re strong enough to tear someone limb-from-limb if their owner had half a mind to do it.
He bypassed my apartment’s security protocols. He must have also disabled the intruder alert notifications and reprogrammed the voice controls to respond only to him. He’s not a garden-variety thief looking to get one over on the Dodger; if he were, he would’ve been long gone before I got home. Which means he wants something that can’t be hauled out in a duffel bag.
Some mercs use enhanced security features in their private quarters: double or triple authentication on entry pads including biometrics or retinal scans and keypads for complicated passcodes. Security cameras. Panic rooms with exits to escape tunnels for those who are exceptionally paranoid—or hated. Rabid security measures are a matter of self-preservation because there are mercenaries who don’t buy into the p
hilosophy that a gang of thieves should be found family. It’s a pity there really isn’t much honor among thieves.
My mind flits to the trouble I had getting in the door. Note to self: Reprogram the biometric scanner to make it harder to hack.
Aside from standing uninvited in the middle of my apartment, the man hasn’t made a move against me. Still, a barrage of quick offense tactics to gain leverage and neutralize him race through my brain.
Sand from the Zen garden on the occasional table in his eyes. Knife hand strike to side of throat. Drive the knife into his carotid artery.
“I know it’s highly unorthodox to surprise you like this, but we can’t be interrupted in the course of our conversation. I hope you don’t mind that I adjusted the climate controls. I prefer balmy temperatures.”
“Not at all,” I say, deadpanning the response. “I enjoy it when total strangers break into my home, mess with the heat, and ambush me in the dark.”
“Your blade suggests otherwise.” He sits on my sofa and snaps his fingers. A hulking goon, holding one of my lace bras looped around his index finger, emerges from my bedroom. Another man, drinking from my damn coffee cup, emerges from the kitchen to my left.
“Put the knife down, Mademoiselle Arseneau. Don’t be foolish enough to follow through on what will surely be a tragic choice on your part.”
Rivulets of sweat dribble down the back of my neck. I’m not sure whether it’s from the heat in the room or the adrenaline. Likely, a little of both. The knife rotates in my palm once, twice, three times. It’s a physical tic when I’m nervous or backed into a corner. The goons each take a step toward me, but the man sitting on my sofa holds up a hand. They stop.
“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my apartment?” I ask.
“Language, mademoiselle,” he says with a straight face. “Unless you are very unlucky, we’ll never meet again. I don’t see the point in telling you anything beyond what you need to know for this conversation.”
“Doesn’t seem fair that know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Sit down. We have business, you and I,” he says with a tone of impatient authority that brooks no argument. He settles into my Louis the Fourteenth settee—once owned by Louis himself—and stretches his arms along the top of the gilded bronze wood frame. The man tips his head toward the chair to his right, the one that matches the settee, and keeps his gaze on me.
I choose to sit on the hand-painted floral-and-gilt wood coffee table directly in front of him. Still gripping the knife, I allow it to rest lightly on my thigh. Perhaps I can muster up a little intimidation of my own. His men slip their hands into their coat pockets and move closer to us.
Again, he holds up a hand and they stop.
He rubs the fingers of his right hand together as his brows furrow slightly, a look of interest on his face. “If you put the knife away, you won’t be harmed. You have my word. I’m here to talk, not fight. As a show of good faith, I’ll tell my men to move back.” He glances at the man on his right, then the one on his left. They each take several steps backward, eyes still trained on me.
Reluctantly, I sheath the knife.
“You have quite the collection,” he says. “Priceless antique furniture and rare Greek, Roman, and early twentieth-century Americana relics. Very impressive. One wonders how you acquired such an expensive luxury apartment, complete with rare treasures, all to yourself. Most time travelers make do with much more meager accommodations.”
“Being the best at what I do comes with certain privileges. Privacy being the most important, and at the moment, you’re invading mine. What is it to you if people buy me gifts in appreciation of my skills and hard work?”
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he says. “There are powerful individuals who have a keen interest in your continued success. That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you from the GTC? If you have questions about my recent missions, you can talk to Fagin Delacroix. Her office is one level down, directly below my apartment.”
“I’m not with the government.”
From humble public houses to the crustiest upper crust salons, people have speculated for eons about the Benefactors. Everyone has a favorite theory about which famous luminaries may inhabit the secretive and rarefied stratosphere of these most powerful of power brokers.
Extreme wealth is a given; only the insanely rich could afford to finance time travel ventures. It’s not for me to judge what billionaires do with their money; let them manage their own affairs and account for their own souls. As long as some of their freedom spills into my pockets, I don’t care.
Except when one of them is sitting, menacing and uninvited, in my apartment. That, I care about a great deal.
“I’ve never met an honest-to-God Benefactor before. Funny, I thought you’d be better-looking,” I say, taking a chance that my guess is the correct one.
“Zero for two. I’m not a Benefactor, either. Call me...” He rubs his chin, apparently contemplating how to communicate exactly how influential he is without giving away anything of real value. “A consigliere.”
“A what?”
“An advisor. A fixer. Someone who assists powerful, influential people to achieve their strategic objectives.”
“So you work for the Benefactors.”
His palms turn upward and he offers a noncommittal shrug. “Powerful, influential people. We’ll keep it at that. The most important part of our conversation is what I’m about to say to you now. Listen very carefully.” He leans forward, placing his forearms on his knees as he bores craters into my soul with beady gray eyes. “The mission you’re undertaking is of critical importance to my employers. Failure would be detrimental to your future.”
“Sounds like a threat to me.”
“It’s only a threat if you don’t deliver. Consider this a friendly piece of advice: Swallow your anger. No one cares if you fucking choke on it. Get your head on straight and follow every order given without question, complaint, or attitude from now until the minute you return to base.”
A stark realization hits me squarely between the eyes. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room and I can’t breathe in the vacuum left in its place. “Is... is Fagin reporting on me?”
“Of course she is. It’s one of the tasks my employers require of her.”
Merde. She should have told me.
The Consigliere ignores my discomfort. “You must secure each item on the acquisition list, no matter how difficult it may be. If you come up short by even one artifact, you will pay dearly for it.”
“What if we refuse to play along? We’re resourceful, Fagin and me. Surviving exile wouldn’t be a problem.” The lie sticks in my throat. Truth is, aside from time traveling, I haven’t ventured much beyond the borders of the surrounding towns near our base. Why visit mundane locales when the whole of human history is your playground? The bigger problem of exile would be surviving on the run from both government forces and the Benefactors.
“Exile would be the least of your worries, my dear. Should you fail, the Benefactors won’t stop with a slap on the wrist.”
Heaviness squeezes my chest like a vise. If exile is a minor repercussion for disappointing the Benefactors...
The Consigliere motions to one of his men. The asshole holding my bra approaches and hands him a small, square, black box. A quick shot of adrenaline pulses through my body; I almost pull my knife again. Until I catch a glimpse of the phaser cradled in the bodyguard’s shoulder holster.
I’ve seen the damage phasers cause; a merc who stole from a Benefactor was cut down by one in Fagin’s tavern last year. The weapon burned a wound into his chest that started as the size of a walnut. It grew to the size of an avocado pit, the edges of the surrounding flesh glowing crimson before turning to gray ash. He was dead before he hit the floor.
The Consigliere tosses the black box into my lap.
“What’s this?” I ask, opening it. Inside is a data chip in a small plastic
bag.
“Research so riveting, you’ll stay up all night studying every detail.”
“You should leave the training to Fagin.”
He stands, walks around to the back of the settee. The goons flank him on either side. They look like a pair of muscled bookends as they stand with their arms crossed over their chests. “Trust me, Mademoiselle Arseneau,” the Consigliere says, “The information on that chip is quite illuminating and, if knowledge truly is power,” he pauses, a grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. “then you’re about to become one of the most powerful women in history.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes narrow. “Obey without question. Without complaint or attitude.” The reminder is as pointed and sharp as my knife. “Get your shit together or it will go very badly for you.”
The doorbell rings, and the Consigliere tilts his chin up as though he’s about to sniff the air like a dog. “My cue to leave.”
The door opens. Nico registers the Consigliere’s presence a split-second before the two collide in the doorway.
“Commander Garcia,” the Consigliere nods in acknowledgement.
Nico’s eyes widen in surprise, and he pushes past the Consigliere. He notes the two large goons and gives me another quick look. I nod in return, a signal that I’m okay. “Have we met?” he asks the Consigliere.
“No. I’m glad you’re here, though. Perhaps you can get Mademoiselle Arseneau to focus on the mission. Get her back on track, eh?” He winks and gives Nico a solid clap on the shoulder. Before leaving, the Consigliere gives me another pointed direction: “Watch the hologram files I gave you. I promise you’ll find them...enlightening.” He pauses. “Computer, return domestic controls to Clémence Arseneau. Authentication code: QE1.” He bows to me before the goons follow him out and the door closes behind them.
I rush to the door and slam the manual lock controls. The solid thunk of a deadbolt makes me feel better. “Computer,” I say, “get maintenance up here tomorrow to reprogram security protocols and add authentication layers.”