Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  “Now,” Hank said.

  At his command, several marked PWD vehicles rolled up behind the convoy, their lights strobing. Over a dozen officers emerged from their cruisers and moved quickly forward to form an armed perimeter around the convoy. Meanwhile, several more PWD personnel popped over the top of the tunnel, angling high-powered rifles down at the three vehicles.

  With no way out and no other choice, the members of the convoy threw open its doors. The first to emerge were the strigoi commandos, rapidly forming a circle around the vehicles that was eight deep on both sides. Hank held his breath as they took formation, barely realizing he was doing so. He had warned his PWD backup what the vamps would do when they were cornered, and that no one should fire unless they were fired upon. He knew the strigoi, knew their tactics and how they would respond, and they had played it by the book, exactly as he’d expected.

  The commandos were clad head-to-toe in a dark armor made of light, flexible ceramic body plates. It was a strigoi invention, one they claimed deflected and absorbed ultraviolet-based attacks, but so far no one had put that claim to the test. Even with all that armor, though, they looked different than usual. It was an intangible difference, one that came only with years of experience spent observing the strigs and their mannerisms. If Hank had to distill it into a single word, he’d say they were twitchier than usual. But why? Was it fear of a robbery come to fruition, or something worse?

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  “Everybody, just take it easy,” Hank said as he stepped into the ring of fire his trap had created. “This isn’t a heist. All I need is a word with the money man, Mr. Kaboc Melo.”

  No response.

  “Come on, folks. I know he’s in one of those vehicles. My guess would be the second, but I’d prefer not to go rummaging around for him.”

  Still no response.

  “All right, you had your chance. Here we come.” Hank took a breath, hoping this whole thing wasn’t about to go seriously south, then motioned for the ground team to advance on the vehicles.

  They had barely taken two steps forward before the strig commandos assumed an even more aggressive stance. Here it comes, Hank thought, ready to pull his sidearm at a moment’s notice.

  “Stand down at once,” came the call from the lead commando. “Either show us a warrant or prepare to be fired upon. This is an illegal action that we do not recognize. I say again—”

  Hank was about to tell the commando to shut the hell up—with a bullet, if necessary—when a figure emerged from within the second vehicle.

  “Spector Smiley,” Kaboc Melo said, shooting his cuffs as he stood and straightened. He was among the tallest strigs, standing several inches taller than Hank, with a lean, perpetually hungry look about him. “This is a show of force more befitting of your partner. Are you finally bending to his will?”

  “Do you see my partner anywhere, biter?”

  “Such language.” Kaboc affected a playfully wounded air. “No need to resort to base vulgarities. We’re all gentlemen here, are we not?”

  “Stow it. We need to talk.”

  “So I’ve been informed. I was headed back to Tanglereave with every intention of radioing you upon arrival. It seems that that will no longer be required.”

  “Seems not. Take note, this is what happens when you don’t make yourself available for questioning.”

  “Note taken. As for your questions, you may fire when ready.” Kaboc’s eyes flashed with amusement when Hank tensed involuntarily at the wording. Taking a look around at the bristling display of firepower surrounding them, he shrugged casually, almost coquettishly. “Oops. Poor choice of words.”

  “Given the circumstances, yes,” Hank agreed. “Very poor.”

  “It won’t happen again, I assure you. Now, you were saying?”

  “No, you were saying why the Steelskin Slayers are active again.”

  “But they are not. I saw to their dismantling myself.”

  “Then, why are they claiming credit for the attacks against the Gargoyle Gjunta today?”

  “Why do pretenders claim credit for anything, Spector? Because they are neither clever nor skilled enough to accomplish it themselves. Moreover, I resent the implication that the strigoi community is a monolithic bloc. As an organization, the Steelskin Slayers are no more, but that does not mean we have eradicated extremism entirely. There will always be those among us who hate your kind and others, just as the same is true of your own people.”

  Technically, Hank couldn’t argue with any of that. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Kaboc was holding something back. “What happened to the Slayers? Where did they go? I have a hard time believing you’d turn them away. Exile isn’t your people’s thing.”

  “On that point, you are correct. Those we deemed worthy were reeducated and repurposed. They might have been warriors, but they did have other skills. Many are now working in our security division.”

  Hank didn’t want to think about what had happened to those they hadn’t declared worthy; then again, they were (or had been, at least) gangsters and murderers. It was hard to feel too much sympathy for them.

  “Security division, huh?” Hank nodded, looking over the armored and hooded vamps guarding their leader so tensely. “That include these guys?”

  “Them?” Kaboc imitated Hank, taking a long, slow look before meeting Hank’s eyes again. “Oh, my, no. Really, Hank, do you think us so foolish as to place former criminals on convoy duty? Honestly, I’m offended. No, the former Steelskins are more than happy to live out the remainder of their days in Tanglereave. They also happen to make excellent instructors. In fact, this force is one of their crowning achievements.” Casting a more purposeful look to his security detail, Kaboc said, “Remove your balaclavas. Show the wights your faces. You need not worry; their honor prevents them from using UV to burn you.”

  Without hesitation, Kaboc’s security forces lowered their weapons and removed the protective coverings from their faces. They were completely indoctrinated—that much was obvious—but that wasn’t what shook Hank the most.

  “Holy hell,” he said, looking aghast from face to face. “They’re kids. They’re all kids.”

  Vampires aged differently, of course, but the human equivalent of each of the gun-toting, armor-clad warriors in front of him would have been something akin to 14 or 15 years old. No wonder they were so damn twitchy.

  “Show some respect, my good Spector. These are warriors born and bred to their station in life. I dare say they could level your pitiful blockade in mere minutes, but I have no desire for bloodshed tonight.” Even the mention of the word ‘bloodshed’ seemed to stir a hunger within his detail. Hank felt the tension in the air, a strained, pinching-at-the-edges sensation, but just as quickly as it had come to be, it dissipated. No one wanted to die tonight, not over something so simple as a glorified traffic stop.

  “All right. Here’s what I’m going to do,” Hank said. “I’m going to let you pass, but I want dossiers on all the former Steelskins and what they’re doing now. If you don’t provide them in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll hear from us again, and you and I both know what I mean when I say that.” Hank paused, giving them both a moment to decide if a battle was about to happen. “Are you good with all that?”

  “I am, as you say, ‘good with that,’ yes. You will have all that you requested and more.”

  “Fantastic.” Hank spread his hands and stepped aside. “You’re free to go, child army and all.”

  “And with your judgment, to boot. Shame it’s not a currency in its own right.”

  “It kind of is,” Hank retorted as the vamps began to file back into their little convoy. He was about to wave the makeshift roadblock aside when Kaboc spoke up, apparently intent on having the last word.

  “You should know that, unlike your own, my people are honored to give what they can. Many give more. We may have been stranded here, but we will take your world yet, Spector. Our first a
ttempts failed, true, but we have learned how to play your games. Just you wait.”

  Hank nodded slowly. He’d heard a lot of big talk before, mostly about how this, that, or the other thug was going to kill him, but he was still here, right? “Sure thing, Kaboc. I read you loud and clear. Now, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the road?” He looked to the PWD personnel manning the perimeter and said, “Let ’em through. We’re done here.” Kaboc’s convoy disappeared into the tunnel as soon as the cement truck blockade had been lifted, and yet somehow Hank felt as if they were the ones who had been played. No one nearby seemed to feel differently.

  “Did we do that right?”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, clapping the lead officer on the shoulder. “You guys were outstanding. Top of your game. Tell the bartender at the Blue Cricket, the first round is on Hank Smiley tonight.”

  “No shit? Well, all right, then, Spector. Good working with you.”

  “Likewise, Officer.”

  “So, can I give you a lift back into town?”

  “I think a walk might do me good. I need to clear my head.”

  “You sure? It’s a long walk.”

  Hank frowned, looking down the long stretch of road and deciding he needed something else. “Ah, screw it. Let’s go get a drink.”

  * * *

  The sodium street lamps had come on by the time Cato finally made it back to the office, creating Meridia’s version of nightfall. They used less electricity than their daytime counterparts, creating a twilight atmosphere that was obviously fabricated but had the desired effect. With so many people hunkered down in their homes after all the attacks, the streets were so quiet that Cato could actually hear the soft hum put out by the sodium bulbs. It was strangely appealing, almost reassuring. Even with the madness they had confronted this morning and beyond, the lights were on, and the city was still humming, literally and figuratively.

  The office itself had been built inside the shell of a former basement speakeasy, requiring visitors to traverse a short, narrow hallway before descending an equally narrow and steep staircase. Sitting beneath a massage parlor (a legit one, so far as Cato knew, anyway), the converted office still boasted much of the speakeasy’s original charm, including a buttoned Chesterfield leather sofa and wood-paneled walls. Cato and Hank had torn out the old bar personally, then repurposed the wood and fittings into a set of desks. They had placed the desks together at first, so that they were seated face-to-face and more or less sharing each other’s work space, but Cato’s fidgeting had proved to be too much for Hank. Now, they occupied separate corners of the room, along with a mismatched desk that had been hastily added near the foot of the stairs when Jeanine was brought on board as their office manager.

  His heavy footfalls announcing his arrival, Cato descended the stairs to find Jeanine giving him the stink-eye from her desk. With everything else that had happened, he’d all but forgotten about their brief but very public confrontation earlier.

  “Do we have to do this now?” he asked. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “For me, too,” Jeanine said. “So, yes, we have to do this now. Sit down.”

  Cato raised his brows at her directness but did not object otherwise. He crossed the open floor and dropped into his chair with a deflating sigh. Jeanine was right behind him, seating herself in one of the chairs typically reserved for visitors. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

  “Right,” Jeanine agreed, launching right into it. “So, what’s the deal with you and Aunt Ann? I knew the two of you were on the outs, but what I saw this morning—” Jeanine shivered visibly, shaking her head. “I don’t know what it was about, but I know I didn’t like it.”

  “First of all, I don’t want you pulling that sort of stunt again. You’re not trained for the field, and it’s dangerous out there.”

  “Fine. I promise I won’t do it again. Now spill, already. I’m not letting you squirm your way out of this one.”

  Cato harrumphed, taking a moment to carefully choose his words. “Back when we were partners, Ann came across evidence suggesting that some of our colleagues were dirty. She wanted to rat. I didn’t.” Cato shrugged. “She wouldn’t leave it alone, and I wouldn’t back her play. Eventually, we decided to go our separate ways.”

  Jeanine quirked her mouth, looking at him queerly. “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘That’s it?’ That sort of thing is a big deal when you wear the badge.”

  “No, I get that part,” she said, rolling her eyes for effect. “I mean, it sounds like you left out some crucial piece. What I saw this morning was way more than a simple disagreement. It was personal for Ann. Like, really personal. Whatever you did, it cut her deep.”

  “Why does it have to be something I did?”

  Jeanine dropped her chin, looking at him with hooded eyes.

  “Fine, it was something I did.” Cato reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the days to take this particular trip down Memory Lane. “You have to understand, the people she was implicating weren’t hurting anyone. They were skimming a bit of money from evidence to pad their retirement and pension funds. Ann didn’t like it. I couldn’t have cared less. I won’t say something stupid like ‘everyone does it,’ but it’s more than you might think, and it’s primarily because PWD gets paid the monetary equivalent of dick.

  “Anyway, Ann and I got into an argument about it one night after our shift, the biggest up to that point. Finally, she asked me how she could trust me to have her back in the field if I didn’t have her back when it came to confronting corruption among our own? She made it sound like I was siding with them, when really, I wasn’t siding with anyone. All I wanted was for us to stay in our lane, do our job. She wasn’t going to let us do that, so I nodded and said she was right. I put in for a new partner the next morning. I did my time and was about to punch out when Mayor Zobbles approached me with the offer to spearhead his Spectors unit, and I took it.”

  Jeanine shook her head. “Oh, Uncle Ryen…”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I know.”

  Cato sensed that Jeanine had something else to say, possibly another question, but Hank’s sudden arrival interrupted her. He thumped down the steps unevenly, practically high-stepping with inebriated enthusiasm. He wasn’t drunk, more like nursing a kind and invigorating buzz. Still, it wouldn’t be long before it turned against him.

  Cato and Jeanine shared a single look. “I’ll put on some coffee,” she said after a pregnant pause.

  “Thank you, hon.” Lifting his chin and leaning back in his chair, Cato said, “Evening, Hank. Feeling all right, there?”

  Turning around as if he was surprised to find he wasn’t alone, Hank recovered quickly. “Oh, hey, Cato,” he said with a nod. “Jeanine. What’s up?”

  Cato was tempted to needle him a bit more, but what was the point? Hank was a grown man, and technically they were both long off-duty; who was he to tell his partner he couldn’t toss one back when they were off the clock? Hell, considering how difficult the day had been, the real question was, why hadn’t Cato joined him?

  “Nothing much,” Cato finally said, playing it straight. “I had a chat with Crius Frenn. Didn’t really give me anything useful, just a bunch of your typical bluster. How about you? Have any luck running down Kaboc Melo?”

  Plopping down in his chair as Cato finished speaking, Hank nodded. “Yup, as a matter of fact, I did. Me and a few of our PWD friends caught up with him.”

  “And?”

  “Like you said, nothing much. Swore up and down he had dismantled and repurposed the Steelskins. Then he had his security detail expose their faces.” Hank made a face like curdled milk. “They were kids, Cato. Kids. Vamp kids, but kids all the same.”

  Cato snorted, screwing up his face at the very thought. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Anyway, afterwards, me and the guys went out to grab a round at the Cricket. That’s where I was coming from.”

  “You don’t say,”
Cato said, smirking.

  “Oh, har-har.” Looking up as Jeanine arrived with a steaming mug of coffee, Hank took it gratefully. “You are a godsend. Thank you, Jeanine.”

  “My pleasure, Hank. It’s nice to be appreciated.” She shot a pointed look to Cato.

  Sipping loudly from the mug, Hank missed the look, plus the one Cato shot back. “I also looked in on Ann for a few minutes before my meeting with Kaboc.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’s she doing?”

  Jeanine crossed her brows, her verbal tussle with Cato temporarily forgotten. “Looked in on? What’s wrong with Aunt Ann?”

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “Crap,” Cato said. “With everything else going on today, it slipped my mind.”

  “Of course it did.” Even backing down from a buzz, Hank was still more put together than his partner. Shaking his head, he looked to Jeanine. “Ann’s going to be fine. There was an incident at one of the crime scenes after you left, and she got a little roughed up. Had to get checked into the hospital.”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  “Like I said, though, she’ll be fine.”

  “Incidentally, this is a perfect example of what I was saying about it being dangerous and unpredictable out in the field,” Cato said offhandedly. “Even for seasoned vets like Ann.”

  “Fine, I get it,” Jeanine said. “Are visitors allowed? Can I go see her?”

  Cato made an uncertain noise, frowning thoughtfully. “Probably best to let her rest for now.”

  Hank nodded in agreement. “She was pretty medicated when I was there. Probably passed out by now.”

  “Speaking of which.” Cato stood and stretched bodily, nodding toward the office’s side room. Once, it had been home to the speakeasy’s booze and cash stores; now, it was their own little home away from home for those occasions—like this one—that demanded all hands on deck. “It’s late. I say we bed down here on the cots tonight, and get a fresh start first thing in the morning.”