“The message was broadcast across all Collectorate public streams. It took most of a day to reach Earth, but the incoming Guard transports picked it up sooner. I just spoke with our contact from the Supreme Admiral’s office. They believe it is authentic, and those forty-eight Ark Carriers were in fact destroyed by a weapon unknown to us.”
Michael pounded a fist into the wall.
“Fucking hell! We risk everything and nearabout get all our asses killed, just in time for this son of a bitch to make us look like we’ve been playing with water pistols. Merton, the Guard will strike back. Right? They’re not just gonna withdraw, like he wants.”
“I don’t know, Michael. That’s a decision for the Admiralty. But I would not be surprised if they comply. We know from the vid that Finnegan Moss recorded, James Bouchet was orchestrating it all behind the scenes. He was in league with Celia Marsche; what she expected to gain is beyond me. But he has proven he can indeed strike anywhere without warning.”
“How many?” Sam asked.
“Excuse me?” Merton said.
“How many people did he murder?”
Merton sighed. “My contact said he included the manifests of every Carrier embedded with the vids. The count is unofficial, but the Admiralty believes it to be 1.66 million.”
Michael wrapped her in his arms as tears flowed. Please, he begged without saying the words. Don’t blame yourself. Not again.
“If there is one good thing to come out of this nightmare,” Merton said, “it will likely be the preservation of peace on Earth. There is nothing like a common enemy to unite old foes.”
Michael agreed with Merton’s reasoning, but he couldn’t think about that now. As much as he wanted to string up James from the lowest branch on the tallest tree and watch him hang until the buzzards took him, Michael realized Sam was falling apart.
“He said I’d serve him willingly,” she told Michael. “He said when the war ends, I would stand at his side to map the future.”
“Not a chance, babe. It don’t matter what he said then. You heard him just now. He said he’ll leave Earth in peace. He doesn’t care about us anymore. He thinks he’s God or some shit. He comes anywhere near you, I’ll blow a hole through his fucking head.”
He wiped her tears and kissed her with every ounce of passion he could muster.
“It’s you and me, babe. We’ve been through too much to still be standing, but here we are. Look, I got an idea. I know that’s a scary thing sometimes, but there it is. How about we go back out and start the party up again?”
“What? Michael, we can’t. Not now.”
“Sure, we can. All that crap he said? It doesn’t change a damn thing about what we accomplished here. Plus, we are the hosts and the guests of honor and, well, I think we basically got no choice. So, there's that.”
It some took cajoling, but he convinced Sam to return to the guests. The pall that previously consumed the room was now dominated by lively conversation about what they saw and what it might mean for the future. Michael interrupted by tinkling a spoon against a glass.
“Yeah, so … look, everybody. I don’t have anything inspirational to say, and God knows, there ain’t enough thoughts and prayers to go around for all the people that lost folks on those Carriers. But I guess I know this much. We got each other. We proved it. When we needed to step up, we did. And I think we made a real difference. You know? A real difference.
“The next time I need help, I know I’ve got friends. I ain’t had many of them since I came here. So, what you say we go around and thank each other one more time, maybe grab a doggy bag or something, and call it a night.”
Between the quizzical looks over the “doggy bag” reference, which Michael thought was probably inappropriate, the guests offered reserved smiles. Some grateful nods. Wine glasses held high. And in the end, as the party began breaking up, Lucinda Blanche stepped forward to embrace them.
“I thought I’d seen just about everything this universe could throw at me, until you two came along. You make certain to allot me a front-row seat at your wedding.” She hugged Sam and kissed Michael on the forehead. “And you’re right, Michael. We are friends. It is a word Chancellors do not use often enough, I fear. Perhaps through your example, we’ll see that change.”
Lucinda’s kind words aside, Michael sensed little more than fear and uncertainty as the guests departed and the staff returned to their duties. David Ellstrom and Joseph Doltrice accepted invitations to stay in guest rooms overnight. As the front doors closed for the final time, Michael thought briefly of Maya Fontaine and wondered why she stayed away. Of all his comrades in the struggle, he would have expected to see Maya.
As they strolled arm in arm toward their bedroom suite for the first time in weeks, Michael refused to let Sam go to bed angry.
“I’ll turn twenty next week,” he said. “And you’ll be eighteen in a month. If we were still on first Earth, that would make us both consenting adults.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing really. Just numbers, I reckon. But since there’d be nobody to stop us in two universes, I say we take the plunge.”
“It won’t be legal here until the new treaty passes.”
“Treaty-schmeaty. I don’t care ’bout no stinking treaty. Let’s freak them out with a big-ass wedding. A good ol’ Chancellor-Solomon shindig. We’ll serve gumbo and oysters on the half shell at the reception. They’ll love it.”
“I think oyster harvests are illegal.”
“OK. How about lobster?”
“I tried lobster once, back in Albion. Broke out in rashes.”
“Ah, but see, those weren’t second Earth lobsters. I hear there’s a big difference. Kind of pricey, but fortunately my intended has very deep pockets. We good?”
He drew a smile out of her and rewarded it with a long kiss.
Michael knew they weren’t going to make love tonight, but he could wait. As long as he was next to her, watching from his pillow as she fell asleep, he would be content. She’d come to him when she was ready.
And that’s exactly how their night ended. The sheets were cool but soft, the pillows fluffed, the lavender scent permeating the bedroom. It was enough to make him think the moment would last forever.
He was wrong.
75
H E WOKE TO A SCREAMING HEADACHE, like nothing he ever experienced. Perhaps the jubriska was telling him enough was enough. Michael despised hangovers but always pushed past them quickly, allowing him to rationalize the next ten swigs. His throat was sandpaper dry, barely enough saliva to force a swallow. He rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. No cups? No problem. He drank from the faucet until he satisfied his stunning need to hydrate.
He took a long look at himself in the mirror and couldn’t make sense of what he saw. Yes, he was a far cry from the gangly screwup destined to work for minimum wage most of his life. Michael was a grown man now, ox-strong, broad and muscular, a fighter able to hold his ground against anyone shy of a peacekeeper. And even then, he’d make the fight competitive. But two years of killing and of being shot multiple times was taking its toll. Plentiful scars – visible or otherwise – suggested a man many years older. Having the love of his life in his bed and the apparent gratitude of Solomons everywhere was not enough.
“It’s never gonna end, is it?”
The mirror did not answer back, but it didn’t need to. Michael had only to remember the face of a creature once named Jamie Sheridan. How many millions more would he kill?
“What are you going to do about it, dumbass?”
Neither Michael nor the mirror had an answer. But he did know what might help. He was ready for another bottle of jubriska. Another long pull on a pipe filled with poltash. I earned it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Maybe a little sunshine and a day without running, hiding, fighting, or recovering might do the trick. Maybe breakfast in the gazebo. He loved second Earth’s orange juice.
“Sam?”
She wasn’t in bed. Her side of the covers was flung back, as if she rose in a hurry. Michael wasn’t surprised she struggled to sleep and was embarrassed that he managed to doze like a baby. Outside, the first glimmer of dawn offered an illusion of peace and hope.
Michael set a plan. Speak with Hellene about a beautiful breakfast on the gazebo. Throw down a couple shots of jubriska to soothe the headache (a usual salve). Say nothing about James and declare this a worry-free day, like those times they laid out on the beach at her Pacific Riviera home and forgot all else.
“Trouble’s gonna come, but not today.”
He threw on slippers and started toward the kitchen. The staff was usually rising by now.
As he strolled the empty corridors from the residential wing to the north wing, Michael realized why he always preferred their west coast home. It was intimate, perfect for a couple or a small family. No need for a staff, no rising sense of self-importance. Moreover, this estate’s grandiosity might easily soften a man. Sam even admitted she lost her edge after moving here.
“Maybe …”
He quickly dismissed the idea of talking Sam into moving back to the Pacific. He heard her words already: I’m not going to hide away.
Fair enough. But things would have to change if …
Michael’s reverie cut short. He wasn’t sure if it was instinct or a matter of having walked these corridors so often, he memorized every detail. Every painting. Every sculpture on a pedestal. Every shade of fabric lining the floors. Every …
The splotch of blood was no bigger than a thumbprint, but it was distinguishable on a paneled wall at an intersection between the north wing and access to both the observatory and the rear balcony overlooking the rose gardens. He bent down; the sheen told him this blood was fresh.
“The hell?”
He spied the rear entry doors and a disfigured lump at their base. He gave verbal instructions to raise the lighting. The house complied. Though he could not see the face, Michael knew the lump was the body of a man. His heartbeat spiked.
Closer. Steadily closer.
A huge black stain dominated the man’s back halfway down his torso. Exit wound.
Laser exit wound.
“Holy shit.”
Michael tapped his amp. “Sam. Sam, where are you?”
Nothing.
“I need you to take my stream, Sam. Come on now.”
Michael stood over the body.
“No. This is not happening.”
He turned over David Ellstrom, whose open eyes bore witness to nothing. From the looks of his chest, the blast had to have come from point-blank range.
Again, with the amp. “Sam. Sweetie. Where are you?”
He opened a cube and ran his fingers through to lock in on Sam’s receiving signal. For an instant – but no more – Michael lessened his panic. She was outside on the rear balcony. She was moving, albeit haphazardly.
When the instant passed, Michael pushed off and sprinted through the double-door and the gallery until he saw enough to allow full-on panic to consume him.
They weren’t a hundred feet away: two familiar “children” dragging Sam, whose feet slid across the surface as she hung limp in their arms.
The instant Michael stepped outside, Brayllen Helmut pivoted and revealed a laser pistol in his free hand. He fired. The blue bolts skipped off the balcony around Michael.
“Brayllen. Rosalyn. Stop! What the fuck are you doing?”
They never answered, but they didn’t have to. He can strike anywhere without warning.
Michael needed no explanation. James snuck in a Trojan horse bearing two confused children no one would ever suspect.
“Please drop your weapons. You can’t get away with this. Please. There’s no place for you to run.”
This time, Rosalyn responded by firing shots. Her aim was way off, but Michael ducked behind a giant stone planter as Brayllen opened fire again. He hoped someone would hear the shots and come running with weapons, but if these two killed David without setting off alarms, why would anyone come after the bastards now?
Michael tapped his amp and sent out a message hitting anyone inside the property’s cascade shield.
“I need help. They’re trying to take Sam. South balcony. Bring weapons. Now.”
He dodged between planters and drew closer. The twins were not making much progress. How did they expect this to end?
Michael stood, raising both hands in surrender.
“All I want to do is talk,” he told them. “I know you care about Sam. She gave you a home. Please. Brayllen. Rosalyn.”
The lowered their weapons but did not drop them. Michael wasn’t sure what would happen if he moved in closer.
He didn’t have to wait to find out. A monstrous crack of thunder preceded a blinding flash of light along the balcony’s edge. Michael looked away, regained his vision, and saw a ship hovering in front of the kidnappers. Its entry port pixelated open.
Inside, two children younger than either of the twins raised blast rifles and fired at will. The flash pegs embedded and smashed objects all around Michael.
He dared not run. Michael saw enough to know he’d never survive. And if a peg caught Sam …
It happened too fast. The ship, with the words Spearhead emblazoned on its bow, descended in place. Two boys with rifles hopped off and stood guard as the twins hoisted Sam into the ship.
Laser fire erupted from behind Michael, ricocheting off Spearhead then catching a child soldier square in the chest. Michael turned.
Joseph Doltrice took a firm aim as laser bolts flew past.
It wasn’t enough. Not even close. The surviving soldier dragged the other boy’s body to the ship as Brayllen and Rosalyn, now safely onboard, dropped Sam and provided cover fire.
Michael had nothing. No weapon. No strategy. No words.
Soon as the last child slipped onboard Spearhead, the bulwark pixelated. The ship spun as if on an axis.
Seconds later, as Michael made one last, hopeless dash, a wormhole exploded over Spearhead. The thunder threw him backward, and the ship disappeared.
Michael fell to both knees.
Joseph stopped firing and ran to Michael’s side.
“I don’t understand,” Joseph said. “What just happ …”
Michael bellowed with steaming fury, loud enough to be heard many properties over.
I should have known. I should have known.
“Oh, God. Why?”
Michael had nothing. Without Sam, he had less.
76
Lioness
S AM HEARD FAMILIAR VOICES CLOSE BY. But her eyes seemed locked shut, and their sheer weight told her this must be the middle of a dream. She was being raised, carried, and then laid out upon a board. No, a table. An examining table. What were they saying? She’s been asleep too long. You gave her too big a dose. She’ll be fine. It was likely the aperture effect. It lingers in some.
Aperture? What lingers?
They were close. She felt their breaths. They were calling out her name. The last time someone called to her …
Didn’t she hear Michael shouting?
Another voice, unfamiliar and monotone, echoed all around. It came from a far distant place.
“Final cargo is safely onboard. All ships, initiate catalyst drivers to spin the magnetic field. Infuse dark matter substrata. Verify program sync. Open your aperture in ten, nine, eight …”
Though she did not understand the terminology, Sam thought this seemed less like a dream and more like …
“… three, two, one. Open all apertures. Jump.”
The voices went silent, but different sounds replaced them. Rattling. Rumbling. Shivers raced through Sam.
This wasn’t a dream.
She opened her eyes. To the left, Brayllen Helmut. To the right, Rosalyn. The t
wins gazed up at a large holowindow. Sam didn’t understand the spiraling design with flashing symbols speeding across from right to left. The room itself, decorated in holotools and three rows of beds, might have passed for a hospital ward. But no, this was different.
Sam found the strength to touch Rosalyn’s arm. The girl twisted about, a laser pistol in her right hand. She gasped.
“See, I told you she’d be fine,” Rosalyn told her brother. “The dose was perfect.”
Brayllen was also armed but smiling.
“I’m glad you made it back,” he said. “We were worried.”
“Where am I?”
The twins replied together: “Salvation.”
“You’re going to like it here,” Brayllen added. “Of course, we won’t be on the ship for long. I hear the new home world will be like a paradise.”
“Yes,” Rosalyn. “Much better than Earth.”
She thought they were hypnotized. Their words were stilted, as if someone was whispering in their ear. Each carried a half-smile and the eyes of the possessed.
“What have you done to me?”
“He’s been waiting for you to join us,” Rosalyn said. “Sometimes, we were worried if we’d ever reach this day. When you sent us away, we were so angry.”
Sam sat up, her chest tightening in a fearful noose. Recent events came spilling back as the moment clarified itself. The day before Michael was discharged, Sam received a report saying the twins never made it to their foster home and that authorities were continuing their investigation. But Sam disregarded it, focusing all her efforts on Michael’s recovery.
Michael.
“I’m going to ask you again. Where am I?”
They didn’t answer, delivering only a sickening smile. But the door slid open, and a man over seven feet tall entered.
“You are on Lioness, and you are safe,” he said. “My name is Ulrich Rahm, and I will be your escort.”
“Where?”
“He’s ready for you.” Sam knew who he meant, but Ulrich turned his attention to the twins. “Brayllen, Rosalyn, I think you know where to report. Well done.”
“Thank you, Ulrich,” Brayllen said. “Be nice with Brother James,” he told Sam. “He’s been waiting for you a long time.”
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