Frankie knew the score. Not that she had ever stayed with anybody long enough to grow tired of them. Frankie was still young, barely forty. She had been a marine, a transient profession that hadn’t left her in one place long enough to get attached to anybody. She had hardly settled into her new job working private security on her home world when Michael Glover had come along.
Frankie knew that she looked good. She had never had difficulty attracting men, and a few women as well. She had enjoyed these previous relationships but had never expected them to be pernament.
Her relationship with Michael was different…or was it?
Michael was rarely demonstrative. He looked at the world with those cool, assessing eyes. Michael Glover had spent a lifetime keeping things to himself, letting nobody know the full extent of his thoughts, his resources or his capabilities; and certainly, Frankie couldn’t blame him. Michael Glover, Ptolemy, had never lost a battle but he had lost everything else, including, Frankie thought, himself. Why wouldn’t he be holding a bit of himself in reserve?
At the moment, Michael was aft, conferring with the ships’ officers, waiting for Andrew Sloane to carry out his insane little plan.
And then, they would see…
And after that, time to have a little talk with Michael Glover.
Andrew Sloane had handed Michael a second data-chip. “I have met Jeffrey Salazar on several occasions. He is tall and well built, moves gracefully and observes his surroundings with great care. I suspect he is well past middle age and that he has a military background.
“I know nothing at all regarding his personal habits. He could be as ascetic as a monk or he could be torturing little boys in the basement. He stays in his own section of the palace and speaks to few people other than the king and his network of contacts among the merchants and the spacers guild, who he meets with frequently. This chip contains the names and relevant information on the ones I’ve been able to identify.
“Carl Severs was one of these contacts and now, so am I. His questions revolve primarily around economic and political trends on the worlds I visit. He is extremely well informed on the political situation on many, many worlds. More often than not, he already knows most of what I tell him.
“What else do I know?” Andrew shook his head. “Gossip has it that he came to Croydon from very far away.” He shrugged. “Probably true and hardly a surprise. He brought with him plans for advanced weaponry. He has given King Gustav a vortex beam that can disrupt molecular bonds, screening technology that was common in the First Empire but until recently was unknown to the Second, the ability to penetrate such screening, an ability that even the First Empire did not possess, advanced avionics and controls, similar to those of the London, which allow ships to operate with little to no personnel. King Gustav was obviously happy to have these things.
“I have no direct contacts with the military, but I have contacts with many who do. As you have probably surmised, Croydon is planning to invade the Navarre Protectorate. This is beyond dispute. After that? Who knows? The King, and Jeffrey Salazar, are keeping any further plans to themselves, except that they are turning out ships as fast as they can make them.
“Where do the designs for this advanced weaponry come from?” Andrew Sloane raised his hands and let them drop back down to the table. “Perhaps the individuals whose names I have given you can provide a clue. You may ask them. I plan on asking Jeffrey Salazar.”
Momentary silence greeted this little declaration.
“Why would he tell you?” Michael asked.
Andrew Sloane smiled. “I plan on giving him no choice.”
Chapter 21
Michael, Frankie thought, was in a foul mood. So was she, but Frankie suspected that the reasons for Michael’s distress were different. Michael had larger things to worry about than whether or not his girlfriend’s devotion matched his own. At least they weren’t taking it out on each other. Both of them grew silent when something was eating at them, far better than getting into pointless fights.
They sat together at a small table in the outdoor café. Michael had already downed three drinks in rapid succession. Frankie, who lacked an enhanced metabolism, was still on her first.
Romulus’ voice echoed from Frankie’s interface. “Get down.”
Frankie didn’t hesitate. She dropped to the floor and felt something whooshing over her head.
Michael leaped over the table. Frankie rolled under it, turned onto her back and drew her gun. The gun was unnecessary. Michael held a small man by the neck with his left hand, at least six centimeters off the ground. The man’s face turned purple and his legs kicked against thin air. Strangled sounds came from his throat. Michael’s right hand held his wrist. Michael twisted. Frankie could hear a snap and a knife clattered to the ground.
Michael snarled and released his grip. The man sank down into a chair, moaning and clutching his wrist, half-unconscious.
Security arrived a few seconds later and bundled the would-be assassin away. Michael let out a breath. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “You?”
The corner of Michael’s mouth twitched upward and he nodded. “Let’s see if this one will tell us more than the last.”
“You’re kidding,” Michael said.
“Nope,” Anson said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
This little jackass was not part of some galaxy wide conspiracy. This one was a paid assassin, and not a master of his trade. He sat now under restraints, an induction helmet over his head.
“And somebody pays you to do this?” Michael said.
The little man gave him a sullen look. His name, supposedly, was David Parisi. He worked as a baker at one of the numerous private establishments along the Grand Avenue.
“The credentials of the civilians aboard the ship are not checked as thoroughly as those of the military,” Anson said. “An oversight.”
“Who is he really?”
“His real name is Edison James, a retainer of the Chao-Peterson family.” A wisp of a smile crossed Anson’s face. “From Nereid.”
Michael stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Charles Jameson, the family patriarch, personally gave him his orders.”
“Patriarch,” Michael muttered. “I thought we had seen the last of those three idiots.”
“Apparently not.”
“And are there any other Chao-Peterson family assassins lurking about?”
“Not so far as Edison James knows, but then, he might not know.”
Michael did not have time for this bullshit. Not now. He had much more important things to deal with than some big fish, tiny pond oligarch on a minor world like Nereid. “Squeeze Edison James for everything he knows,” Michael said, “and then put him on ice. I’ll deal with him later, when I have time.”
Andrew Sloane had also given Michael a small metal box. “The bodies that you wear are in constant contact with your original forms, which I assume are somewhere on your ship?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Michael said.
“Such contact is made possible through entanglement. Entanglement was at first assumed to describe the relationship between different particles, or systems. In fact, entanglement dictates that there is only one system, and what had been thought to be individual particles is an illusion. Your consciousness is not split. It is one consciousness in two bodies separated in space.”
“We understand this,” Captain Thorenson said.
“Then you understand that this device contains my memories and my consciousness, just as much as the body that I currently wear. They are entangled. They are one. I want you to return it to my father, so that I may resume my true form.”
Michael stared at him. He had a bad feeling for where this conversation was about to go.
Andrew, sensing his discomfort, smiled benignly. “I have an interview scheduled with Jeffrey Salazar. Salazar has protections in place. This physical form can detect them. His quarters a
re filled with communication devices, automatic weapons and escape hatches, but none of this will help him.
“I am much, much stronger than any mere human. Jeffrey Salazar cannot resist me. You will hear what I hear and see what I see. Jeffrey Salazar will tell me what I ask him, on pain of death.”
“And then what?” Anson asked.
“And then his retainers will arrive and rescue him.”
“And then what?” Michael said.
“Then they will kill me, and Jeffrey Salazar will happily conclude that he has escaped a serious threat to his life.”
Michael sank back into his seat. “I was afraid of that.”
Andrew gave him a compassionate look. “Do not be despondent, and do not mourn my death. Remember, this body that I wear is only a shell and I am not really human. All will be as it must be. I shall return to the Rift. I will remember my time and my experience among you and I will share these memories with my people. They shall enrich our existence and inform our decisions for a million years.”
The box easily interfaced with their systems and Michael, Anson, Captain Thorenson, Commander Dumas and Frankie found themselves suspended in the web.
“Watch,” Andrew Sloan’s disembodied voice said.
The office was spacious. An expensive looking rug sat on the floor. The desk and chairs were sturdy and comfortable, probably antiques. A large window looked down upon the city and the far distant sea.
Jeffrey Salazar was already sitting on a chair in front of a low table when three bored looking guardsmen ushered Andrew Sloane into his office. Andrew had been thoroughly searched, but the guards’ boredom had not prevented them from doing their job. That was just fine. Andrew needed no weapons for what he was about to do.
A pot of coffee, another of tea, cream, sugar and two cups sat on the table.
“Please sit down,” Salazar said.
Andrew ignored the request. He walked around the table, extruded a claw from his right index finger and stabbed Salazar in the neck, injecting a short acting paralytic. Salazar’s eyes bulged. His breath caught in his throat as he struggled to breathe. Andrew walked back to the door and turned the bolt, locking it. Then he walked back to Salazar and held up his right hand. The claw grew longer, straighter and thinner.
“Let me see,” Andrew muttered, then stabbed the claw into each femoral nerve sheath and injected a local anesthetic. He repeated the process at either side of Salazar’s neck, paralyzing the brachial plexus. Then he sat down to wait.
By now, Salazar’s breathing had grown a touch easier. A series of gasping moans came from his throat.
“I injected you with a paralytic. It will be gone in less than a minute. You will find, however, that you cannot move your arms or your legs. This will wear off in approximately three hours.” Andrew mirthlessly grinned. “If you live.”
Salazar stared at him.
“I have a series of questions for you. If you answer them truthfully, then you may survive this experience.” Andrew shrugged. “If you don’t, then you won’t. Please don’t to lie to me. I can tell.
“So, first, what is your real name and where are you from?”
Salazar didn’t waste time with empty threats. He glared at Andrew and said nothing. Andrew held up his left hand. Another needle-like claw extruded from the index finger. “This is similar to strychnine. If I inject you with it, your muscles will go into a spasm so severe they will tear away from the bone.” Andrew smiled. “It will hurt.” He held up his right hand. The claw on this hand had by now disappeared. He spread the fingers and a blue crackle of electricity arced between his fingers. “This will hurt as well. Don’t make me use it. Spare us both the trouble.”
“Jeffrey Sylvester, from Reliance, in the Empire,” Salazar said.
Andrew frowned. “The second statement is true. The first is not.” He reached out and a blue spark jumped from his finger to the tip of Salazar’s nose. Salazar cried out.
“You’re good at controlling your responses,” Andrew said. “Your heart rate and your scent have barely changed. Clearly, you have had training at this. You could probably fool most humans, even those with enhanced senses, but you cannot deceive me. So, I will ask again: what is your name?”
Salazar’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Andrew but he answered the question. “Johnathan Prescott-Jones.”
In the web, Anson glanced at Michael. Michael frowned but said nothing.
Andrew sat back and pondered. After a moment, he said, “I know that name. You were an agent for the Imperium. For whom are you working now?”
“Myself.”
Andrew made a clicking sound with his tongue. “A half-truth,” he said. “Let me amend my question: with whom are you working now?”
Salazar cleared his throat and coughed three times. Inside Salazar’s desk, a silent alarm activated. Andrew pretended to be unaware of this. He waited for Salazar’s coughing fit to end.
“An organization you have never heard of,” Salazar said, “with resources greater than you can imagine.”
“Do tell,” Andrew murmured. “And what is this organization called? And where can I find it?”
“It has no name.” Salazar grinned. “You can find it in the Well of Time.”
“The Well of Time…”
Salazar laughed. The door to the office disappeared. Flame licked through the open doorway and swept over Andrew’s body. He stared silently at Johnathan Prescott-Jones as his skin blackened, and he fell burning to the floor. The last thing he heard was Prescott-Jones laughter and his voice saying, “Well, someone could.”
The web dissolved. Michael stared at his companions’ faces.
Andrew Sloane’s voice issued from the wall. “I might have hoped for a bit more,” he said.
Michael sighed and shook his head. “The Well of Time…?”
“Johnathan Prescott-Jones, as you all know, served as an agent of the Imperium for over fifty years,” Michael said. “He led the Imperium’s ground forces during their attempted invasion of Dancy. When the invasion failed, he vanished.”
Finally, a clue, something other than a phantom or a rumor, not that they knew what to do with it. The juniors sat at the table and listened attentively. Even that idiot Forrester and Brianna LeClair looked less bored than usual.
“Our records contain no mention whatsoever of this Well of Time, whatever and wherever it may be,” Captain Thorenson said.
Commander Dumas frowned. “Mr. Sloane gave us the names of eight people who met frequently with Jeffrey Salazar. All eight are high functionaries of King Gustav. All eight live on well-guarded estates, but these estates’ shielding is ordinary. We’ve been able to establish micro-drones in every room. We’ve gathered a lot of data on the planned invasion of Navarre, but beyond that, there is no clue to anything that might indicate a larger conspiracy.”
“Johnathan Prescott-Jones,” Anson said, “before he became the Chief Executive Officer of the Prescott Corporation, and long before becoming an agent for the Imperium, served a career as an agent for naval intelligence.
“Romulus?”
Romulus voice issued from the speakers. “The details are still under seal. What we know, however, reveals a man of intelligence, focus and drive. He was a problem solver for the military. Troublesome individuals had a habit of suffering political reversals, career ending scandals or conveniently dying once Johnathan Prescott-Jones arrived on the scene. Hostile entities became neutral. Neutral worlds decided that it would better serve their goals as allies or associate members of the Second Empire.”
A career not unlike Michael’s own, during its middle stages. “Such men are used to working independently,” he said. “Johnathan Prescott-Jones is working with somebody, not for somebody. A partner, a junior partner perhaps, but he won’t be a servant. Presumably, he is carrying out plans that have been previously agreed to. In doing so, he will take whatever action he sees fit and he won’t be waiting for orders. It may be a long time before he contacts his associate
or his associate’s organization.”
“So, what do we do now?” Commander Dumas asked.
Michael had been asking himself the same thing. They had sent a scout ship back to Reliance. If nothing else, Arcturus deserved to know what they had discovered, as limited as it was.
“Sit tight,” Michael said, “and continue to observe.”
Chapter 22
“This is an embarrassment of riches,” Prime Minister Ahmed Khoory said. “So many enemies to choose from.”
Arcturus had to agree with him. They were sitting on the Prime Minister’s favorite balcony in his favorite VR simulation, sipping coffee spiced with small amounts of a virtual hallucinogenic. The Prime Minister seemed to find the effects amusing. Arcturus found the progression of weirdly collapsing and re-forming geometric patterns to be a distraction, particularly the ones that floated directly through his body.
“Would you rather we didn’t know?” Arcturus said.
“The Akadius Corporation has destroyed more than one human occupied world, but they are not our human occupied worlds. Charging in and taking revenge will not bring back the people they have killed. Also, it will cost money.”
Arcturus shrugged. “Set an example. Let the Universe know that the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind is the eternal protector of the downtrodden and the abused.”
“I’m uncertain how much protecting we can afford.”
Arcturus clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’ve never been one of the Isolationists. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid that my political allies in the various non-isolationist parties will get cold feet. Only recently, we had to deal with the Imperium, and then Akadius and the Corporate States appear on our horizon, and now we are informed of the Empire of Croydon and the plans of this King Gustav.” The Prime Minister gave Arcturus a scathing look. “Aided and abetted by your cousin.”
“My cousin the traitor,” Arcturus said.
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