by Lyn South
Well, that’s not exactly true. There’s me.
Chapter 14
`
I didn’t think it was possible for Becca Trevor to be more grating, more annoying, more Becca than before, but somehow she is. As she stares glassy-eyed into the half-empty mug of coffee in front of her, she punctuates guttural moans with curses.
“Shit,” she says. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Her eyes are red, puffy. She clamps her fists over her ears and throws a murderous glance at Nico as he ambles past on his way from the galley to the cockpit, coffee in hand, to perform the morning system checks. He whistles an effervescent rendition of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and gives me a mischievous wink as he whistles louder.
“He’s a sadist,” Becca says, her voice is a sandpaper rasp, the result of a morning spent retching into the toilet.
“You missed a helluva party last night,” I say, raising my voice. I slide onto the booth and clank my coffee cup and bowl of cinnamon oatmeal down hard onto the table. “What happened?”
“You’re both sadists,” she says, flattening her palms against her ears, trying to muffle the noise.
“Are you ill? You were well enough at dinner last night.” I lean across the table and place the back of my hand on her forehead in mock concern. “Maybe you just need an aspirin.”
She slaps my hand away. “You know very well what happened to me. Either you or that asshole,” she nods toward the cockpit, “put something in my drink last night.”
At close range, her breath smells of vomit with overtones of coffee. I scoot back into the corner of the booth in self-defense. It doesn’t help much. “For God’s Sake, brush your teeth. If nothing else, you’ll smell better.”
I pull a data pad closer to me, plug my earbuds into the auxiliary port and tap the screen. A blueprint of a grand Tudor residence displays and the accompanying audio narration buzzes in my ear. “The following schematics are the blueprints of Greenwich Palace during the reign of King Henry the Eighth. The Tudor court was in residence at Greenwich from Twenty-Seven November of 1532 through early February of 1533. The first floor—“
The sound abruptly stops. My hands spring up to my face as the earbuds are ripped from my ears.
“What the hell is your problem?” I shout, snatching the dangling audio wires from Trevor’s grasp. “I don’t care who you are, don’t you dare put hands on me like that again.”
“I’m not done talking,” Trevor says. “You think you’re so bloody clever. Trying to derail this mission by knocking me out.”
Fagin and Nico both emerge from the cockpit. Nico gives me a questioning look. Fagin just looks perturbed.
“What’s the problem, ladies?” Fagin asks, her voice tinged with weary annoyance.
“She thinks we drugged her last night to keep her out of the action,” I say. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. Do you?”
“That’s a pretty serious charge, Trevor,” Fagin says. “We can do a blood test to see if you ingested any toxins in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Excellent idea.” Trevor face brightens, and she leans on her forearms on the table as she stares me down. Her gaze is pure panther.
“You’re serious,” I say, shooting Fagin an exasperated look. “Are you really going to indulge this fantasy?”
“Best way to put this accusation to rest is by testing her hypothesis. If there are illicit drugs in her system, blood tests will confirm it.”
Fagin retrieves a medical kit. She dons a pair of latex gloves and sterilizes the area behind Trevor’s left earlobe with a handheld sterilizer. Then, she presses a small blood and tissue sample extractor against her skin.
“Ow. Ow ow ow ow OW!” Becca says, whimpering like an exhausted toddler overdue for a nap.
“Christ,” Nico mutters under his breath.
Fagin places the extractor on the table and we watch a series of abbreviations and numbers cycle through the panel of blood gas values. Nico shoots me a brief, wide-eyed look. Fingers crossed that the drugs really are undetectable. He seems to say. A sentiment I return with a discreet shrug. The numbers flash green on the display panel for several seconds before one of the test values hits red.
“See!” Trevor says, her voice drops into a dark I-Told-You-So tone. “There is something.”
“Sure is,” Fagin replies. “Your blood alcohol content is .07.”
“So, Lieutenant Lightweight is still drunk,” I say, allowing myself a satisfied smirk and a small sigh of relief. “Looks like she needs to learn how to hold her liquor a better.”
“Screw you, Dodger,” she replies, venomous. She turns to Fagin. “Someone on this crew drugged me. Run the test again and feed the report to the ship’s main computer. Maybe there’s something wrong with the extractor unit.”
“All equipment was calibrated before we left base, per regulations, and we’re very thorough in our work.” Nico says. “There’s nothing wrong with the extractor.”
“I. Am not. DRUNK,” Trevor bellows.
“You need a little more time to sober up after your bender last night,” Fagin says. “Sleep it off and you’ll be just fine.”
“It wasn’t a bender. There’s been a mistake.” Trevor snatches the unit from table and squints at the display panel as she scrolls through the test result list in clumsy, rapid-fire sweeps. She runs through the test results at least twice before shoving the panel across the table in frustration. Fagin catches it before it plummets to the floor.
“Careful with the equipment,” Fagin says.
“The only thing those test results prove is that you gave me something that left my system fast or can’t be traced at all.”
“Why would we drug you?” I say. “Fucking with the Benefactors’ informant would complicate our lives in a million different ways. We want to acquire the acquisition list items so we can finish this job and get home in one piece.”
“Speaking of acquisitions,” Trevor jumps to her feet and we stand nose-to-nose even though the stench of her breath is overpowering. She sways on the spot; it seems the sudden head rush of standing too quickly is making her woozy. She leans her backside against the table’s edge and grips it with white-knuckled fingers. Her eyes cross and she blinks to refocus. “After I realized one of you is trying to sabotage me, I made two changes to the mission parameters beginning with the acquisitions list. You might want to take a look.”
Nico pulls the file up on the Comm Panel and scrolls through the list. “What the hell?” he says, bristling. “You’ve added a full page of stuff to the inventory.”
“Twenty-Five new items added, to be exact,” Becca says. “For now.”
“For now?” Fagin and I repeat, in unison.
“I have a rather extensive list of items that can be added at any time, depending on your level of cooperation. The more you fight me the longer the list gets.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding-”
“You want more? That can be arranged.”
We’re toe-to-toe and as much as I want to remind her how much she reeks, the reality of her self-promotion is sinking in. Not wanting to blink or look away, I reluctantly take a small step backward.
“That’s what I thought.”
Her smugness is unbearable; beads of sweat pop up on the nape of my neck in response. Fagin places her hand at the small of my back and whispers in my ear: “Steady.”
“You better get your asses in gear,” Becca says, a smarmy smile plastered on her face. “I have a feeling it’s going to take quite a bit of re-work on the mission strategy to fit all of these items into the schedule.” She cocks her head to the side. “What happened to that smug little smile, Arseneau? Your plans to eliminate me from this mission not working out the way you expected?”
“Why would you extend the mission timeline by adding more shit to the list? Do you know how much longer we’ll need to be here to finish this job, now?” An anxious pit forms in my belly; the thought of spending more time in England makes me
want to hit something hard.
“The Benefactors knew you’d continue to be a problem. Redeeming yourself will require more than just stealing a trinket or two. I have full authority to modify the mission at any time to meet the Benefactors’ goals.” She pauses and gives me an ominous look that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Which include not only obtaining the artefacts they desire, but to bring you to heel, dear girl.”
She sways on her feet and belches; a sour, foul-smelling odor so thick it’s almost visible hangs around her like a fog.
This gnat needs squashing. “You’re not just hungover, you seem hangry, too, Trevor. You know what’s good for a hangover? Food. Lots of food to soak up the greasy sick settled in your gut. Here,” I reach over to the table and slide my bowl of oatmeal closer to her. “Have my breakfast. Or I can cook bacon and eggs, if you like. Or maybe pancakes loaded with butter and syrup. How about some hardtack biscuits and gravy? That’s what the sailors I knew ate after drunken binges. Well, new sailors would vomit while the old-timers sat in the galley tucking into just about anything they wanted.”
Color drains from Trevor’s face, replaced by a look of queasy disgust at the mention of all that food. She bolts toward the narrow corridor leading to crew corridors, knocking Fagin into the wall as she races to her room.
“Happy now?” Fagin says, dryly. “You poked the bear, Dodger. We had her somewhat contained before, but now she’s going to scrutinize everything more closely. We won’t be able to take a piss without her permission.”
“We got around her before. We can do it again,” Nico says, leaning against the cockpit’s doorframe. “We just have to be more cunning than she is.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.” I say, smiling at him. “We are pretty clever.”
In unison, the three of us turn to stare at the acquisition list glowing green on the Comm Panel screen.
“Merde,” Fagin says. “We better get busy. Trevor was right. We have to rework our entire plan.”
“I’ll make more coffee. It’s gonna be a long night,” Nico says.
It’s the wee hours of the morning before we finish cataloguing every item on the new acquisition list, sorting them by owner, last known location, the royal party’s residency at each location, and the risk factors for obtaining each item. Trevor has yet to reappear after fleeing the main cabin. I imagine she’s probably passed out again.
With a swipe of his fingers, Nico highlights several items on the list—low-hanging fruit, he calls them. “Smaller jewels—rings, pins and bracelets—are easier to pocket. I recommend starting with these first.” he says. “There are several gems the royal ladies-in-waiting seem to already have on this journey with them. Leeds Castle is the first stop on the road back to the king’s London palaces.”
Fagin positions her data pad in the middle of the conference table and taps the screen. “Remember the ruby necklace Mary Boleyn wore last night?” A three-dimensional hologram image of Mary Boleyn, wearing the necklace, springs up from the data pad. “I’m sure it caught Dodger’s eye.”
“What of it?” I ask, pretty sure the answer is going to piss me off.
“It’s now on the list,” she replies.
“Dammit, Fagin,” I say. “I could’ve acquired it last night.”
Fagin only shrugs. “Hindsight is a bitch sometimes.”
Nico zooms the image until the Boleyn girl’s neck and heaving cleavage is dead center. The necklace fits snugly in her décolletage. The hologram’s realism makes her skin look warm and inviting and physically present; even the blood coursing through her carotid artery is palpable enough that you could take her pulse.
His head tilts to one side and with a quick intake of breath, realizes the zoom perspective is too close. Noticing that Fagin and I are staring curiously at him, he zooms out again, blushing as he mumbles a quick, “Sorry.”
“The ruby wasn’t the only asset on display.” Fagin chuckles. “We could take advantage of the ship-board time to procure a few of the items we know are here in Calais if we can secure passage back to England on the King’s ship. You’re in pretty tight with Mary,” she says to me. “Pop in over at the Exchequer and take Mary a bit more wine for her personal use. That gorgeous French courtier she marked for conquest last night seemed to really enjoy it. Mary could use the wine to coax him into a liaison.”
“Too risky,” I say, rubbing my eyes which, from the feel of them, must be bloodshot from ten hours of bouncing back-and-forth between computer files and hologram videos. Blinking against the dryness, the insides of my eyelids feel like sandpaper scraping across my corneas. “The Swallow is too small to comfortably pilfer anything from the passengers without risking detection. If we’re caught, the whole mission would be over. We’d get shipped straight back to France as soon as we made port in Dover.”
“If you’re not thrown overboard on the way.” Nico says. “Agreed. It’s too risky.” he leans back in his chair and stretches, the fabric of his T-shirt straining against his taut biceps and pectorals. Warmth spreads up my neck and pricks my earlobes as the longing to let my fingers explore Nico’s terrain grows. When he smiles at me—eyes clear and bright and oh-so-damn-sexy—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag him to my cabin. “Besides, you’re not leaving me alone with Trevor.”
“Speak of the devil,” Fagin nods at the acquisition list. “She’s adding more.”
In the bottom-left corner of the screen, the total number of records in the data set begins ticking upward. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight...
The count paused at thirty new items, then continued its upward trend.
One by one, Fagin displays the holograms of each new addition and reads the descriptions. “None of these look like low-hanging fruit: A silver locket containing a miniature portrait of Anne Boleyn painted during her childhood at the French court; Mark Smeaton’s violin and music sheets from the masque performed at Christmas of this year; BOTH goblets used by King Henry and Lady Anne at their wedding— “
“They married in secret,” I say, pushing the hologram image to the left to get a better look at the other side of these jewel-encrusted gold goblets. “No Observers have attended that ceremony. We only have vague dates as to when the wedding actually took place.”
“Looks like you might be the first, Dodger.” Nico sighed. “You’ll have to work that Mary Boleyn connection to make sure you get an invite.”
“With everything on this list, we could be in England for an entire damn year. Some of these items are located in Scotland.” My gut clenches at the thought of staying long enough to watch the birth of the English colonizer—Elizabeth Regina the First. Even as a squalling, red-faced infant, her entry into the world marks the beginning of everything that destroys Acadia.
Destroys my people. My family. I can’t bear the thought.
“The mission takes as long as it takes, Clémence.” Fagin regards me with a cool curiosity; her narrowed eyes convey the same suspicion when she knows I’m up to something that she hasn’t approved. “Also on the list is a letter from Queen Catherine of Aragon—dated in April 1533—smuggled by Spanish ambassador Chapuys to her nephew, the Emperor of Spain.”
“I guess she didn’t much care for your breakfast recommendations.” Nico replied. “This list seems custom-made for exacting vengeance or, at the least, teaching us a lesson.”
“April of next year? The letter to Spain is dated for next... year?” My breathing quickens into sharp, shallow breaths that make my chest tighten like someone is squeezing my heart and won’t let go. “No. No, I can’t stay until April. I can’t stay—”
The claustrophobia I felt in the Sim Lab during the training exercises hits me with the force of a battering ram to the chest.
I don’t remember standing up, don’t remember clambering over the table in front of Fagin to get out of the dining booth, but I must’ve done because the bench sits flush against the wall, and the only way out—if you’re sitting in the corner a
nd someone is next to you— is if the other occupant stands up first.
Nico moves closer. He pulls me into an embrace and I’m surprised to feel wet spots bloom on his tee shirt as my forehead rests against him. Once I notice the tears, I can’t stop them. Great, heaving, sobbing tears spill out onto his chest.
“Hey,” he says softly against my hair. “Hey, come on. I know it’s a pain, but—”
“There’s so much you don’t know, Nico.” Fagin says. She sounds distant, like she’s talking from the bottom of a well. The voice I hear louder than any of them is the narrator from the Tudor hologram files the Consigliere gave me.
“...without Elizabeth on the throne in the sixteenth century, England would not have conquered what would ultimately become...“
What if I’m still here when Lady Anne’s conceives? What if I must watch as her belly swells like a watermelon? Can I watch her child come into this world, a squalling red-faced infant, knowing she is destined to destroy everything I love? I can’t let her happen. I just can’t.
Chapter 15
The portrait miniature is my exact likeness. It’s set in a sterling silver locket engraved with curlicue flourishes. There’s a demure smile on my face—definitely not painted from life because nothing about me is demure—and every color used, even the royal blue background, complements my features in a perfect balance of highlights and shadows.
I wonder how the artist—infamously temperamental Hans Holbein the Younger—painted this image when I know I’ve never modeled for him. This painting is so breathtaking in its delicate lifelike perfection, it feels as though portrait-me could step out of the painting at any moment.
How much would a Benefactor pay for a Holbein original even if it’s of me?
“Our artist is a genius,” Anne says, peering over my fingertips at the portrait. She holds her hands, clasped in front of her. Draped over the top of one fist is a thin leather cord; whatever is attached to the other end is hidden inside her palm.