by Ellen Larson
So simple. Meet me in the cloister garden at ten. That’s what the message must have said. Saints! Lena had passed him a message right under Merit’s nose! But why in Resistance code? A bitter joke? No. A clever way to keep their secret should the tondo fall into the wrong hands.
The Prioress stepped backwards, and Merit knew their rendezvous was nearing an end. She strained her ears to hear their voices, and as if in sympathy, the insect noises ceased and the breeze died.
“Keep out of my way,” said a hoarse voice.
Eric took her arm. “You’re sure you’ll be safe?”
“Perfectly safe. It has already happened.”
“I love you,” he said.
Like a curtain that falls unexpectedly at the conclusion of a complicated play to indicate that the ending has been reached, the clouds closed in over the moon, throwing the garden into total darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Sunday, 16 April 3324, 10:15 p.m.
Merit fled the way she had come, silent and fast by force of nature rather than intent. She saw no one, and was in no state of mind to care if anyone saw her. The world was gray and silent, a sketchy charcoal drawing on a gauze curtain. Distances were distorted. The lea south of the ruined Conservatory was endless; the goats bleated and scattered as she burst through their resting place. She plunged into the Wood and stumbled along the path, arms held before her face to ward off whipping branches.
As she rolled beneath the chain-link fence, she heard her jacket rip—the first solid evidence that she was still in the corporeal world and not lost in the interstices of time and space. Forgetting—not caring—about the existence of the antigrav, she followed the streambed through the head-high culvert that cut beneath the road. Then she ran again, on and on, following the stream through a maze of oleander. A kilometer beyond the road, she heard the first sounds of running water. The River.
The way grew difficult, rocky and covered with clinging brambles. Her lungs were raw, her eyes dry and stinging. She slowed to a walk, mind empty, body numb.
The stream disappeared through a pipe in a high concrete wall. She stared at it, as if pondering how she could follow, then turned aside and scrambled up a bank of short, stiff grass. The ground continued to rise beneath her feet. She was on a steep grassy slope, at the top of which, nothingness. The edge of the world.
The sound of rushing water was loud. The grass ended and she stepped onto a broken pavement—and realized she had come to the old barrage that had once spanned the River and powered half the City with its might. Weeds grew knee-high through the cracked platform. Beyond the pavement was a twisted metal railing, a doomed attempt to hold the nothingness at bay. There at that railing she stopped, unwilling to go back, lacking the motivation to turn left or right, content that forward was the way she must go. She looked down.
The River, tumbling through the vast breach in the barrage, fell some twenty meters to the rocks below, where it blanched in the moonlight and twisted as if in pain. Downstream, the water was darker, though it bucked and turned as if sea serpents wriggled beneath the surface. Hungry sea serpents, with red eyes and curved fangs.
Images flashed across her mind. Marshall Frey, expressionless but for the highlights dancing like fireflies on his gold shield. The scan of Omari Zane’s dead body, slumped in his chair, blood streaking his face. Gabriel Castor’s canary, fluttering its wings at the sight of the sunlight. Eric Torre, removing his shield to wipe the sweat from his brow. Lena Salim, soaring like a bird through the air.
They had played her beautifully, all of them, each for their own purpose. She had tried to outwit them; to keep her thoughts and turbulent feelings hidden, but she had never stood a chance.
She should have known Lena and Eric knew one another—had not Lena’s behavior in his presence been enough of a giveaway? The coy attitude she had been unable to hide when she had spoken with him—fairly flirted with him. And there had been other clues. Eric had let it slip that he had been with Lena at Byzantion. And what a coincidence that Lena had known the name of Gellar, Eric’s favorite theoretical physicist. Lena had been a Prospective, and he had always been obsessed with retrospection. He had probably sought her out the minute he had joined Authority. Or before; perhaps as long ago as those summers Lena had spent in Rasaka.
Even so, Eric’s performance had been masterful. Just the right combination of confrontation and concern, playing the part of the estranged lover returned from beyond hope to rescue Merit from her miserable existence in the nick of time. The Marshall had wanted her to get to him, to use their former relationship to find out what he was up to. But it had been Eric who had gotten to her, for some purpose she could not quite pinpoint. To enlist her help in future Retrospections, perhaps. Or just for the hell of it, to pay her back for her presumed dismissiveness. It didn’t matter. He had been working against her. Betraying her while pretending to care, while praising her for her ideals. Just like Omari Zane.
An icy anger coalesced out of the darkness and took possession of her. Zane. Father figure. Hero. Betrayer. If he had stayed true they might have won the war, or at least made a better peace. But he had murdered his own, then signed away their rights, just to buy an immediate ceasefire. None of this would be happening but for Zane’s act of betrayal—not of her, she was unimportant, but of her people. She, not Thad, should have been the one to carry out the sentence. She would not have failed. If he were not already dead she would have made it her final mission in life to kill him herself. It was a shame she would never know who had done it, so that she could have expressed her thanks. At least she knew—had always known—why he had been killed. There was only one reason kill a traitor: for his treachery.
And with that thought, framed as it was by the clarity that came with anger, she understood. In swift succession, she knew why there had been no recent threats against the General. She knew where the second tondo had come from. And, of course, she knew who had killed Omari Zane. She saw what must have happened in perfect detail, as if she had been there.
Despite her fever, her mind was calm. She saw what she must do as if it had been mapped out in advance. She would, after all, have to flex for the Rasakans. It would mean breathing in the stale air of her life a few hours longer, but it would be worth it to prove to herself that she had not wholly lost her identity. One ultimate act of resistance that nobody would appreciate but her. For her father. For the old Prioress. For the Last.
There were none who would miss her. Certainly not Thad, though he might thank her for succeeding in diverting suspicion from him. They had nothing in common but a past that forced them to be honest with each other. Her crew would miss her, for a while. But over time they would be better off without her, especially if the Marshall continued to use them to fight against Authority. For she was only holding them back from the integration that they wanted but that she couldn’t accept. As for Ma-man and Adele, they would miss her least of all, blissfully unaware as they were of what she had once done for them. She hoped they would not pay for her crimes, but knew she could no longer protect them.
Marshall Frey and Gabriel Castor, each in his own way, would probably miss her most of all. In the year since she should have died—since the better part of her had died—first Castor and then John Frey had pushed, pulled, and cajoled her to bring her to this point. It didn’t matter if the Marshall’s motivations were the nobler of the two; he had used her just the same. Together they had lured her into compliance with little things—shoes, warmth, food, a bed, a little work—and maneuvered her into complicity by playing on her one vulnerability: her sense of duty to family, colleagues, and crew, until she had stood at the brink of the final surrender, needing only a little push to go over the edge. They had almost won.
But not quite.
The knowledge that she would disappoint them was fierce satisfaction.
The sweat she had raised in her flight had dried in the breeze that blew across the barrage, leaving her b
ody cold. She looked down into the chasm. The serpents reared out of the water snapping at her, demanding to be fed.
She reached into her jacket pocket—a gesture that had become instinctive over the past two months. But instead of the expected pillbox, her fingers touched something else.
The little cardboard box. She took the necklace out and held it in her hand. Her fingers closed on it, and the old haws cracked and broke. She rubbed her palms together, grinding the broken bits to dust. As the water roared with glee, she flung the remains of the necklace into the snapping maw below, then turned and walked away from eternity, till such time as she had fulfilled her destiny and killed Omari Zane.
DAY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
Monday, 17 April 3324, 9:53 a.m.
“. . . And you’re gonna find yourself livin’ in the hotel by the
River again.”
Someone was poking her shoulder.
“Rafi, dja hear me? I said, they’re waitin’ for ya!”
Merit awoke to find herself lying on the lime-green sofa in the lounge of the Caseroom. The morning light shone on the orderly’s sneering mouth and blue half-shield. “Yeah I heard you.” She rubbed at her crusted eyelids. “Now get outta my sight, you fucking heap of dung.”
“Oh, escuse me. I thought you was sommudy important.” He jerked his knee at her head, connecting with her cheek and mouth. “Don’t blame me when you end up breathin’ cement. Select.”
Exit the orderly, triumphant.
Merit put a hand to her jaw. All things considered, that had felt pretty good. Just the thing she needed to regain focus after her hellish night. Her head was throbbing, inside and out, her nose swollen and filled with mucous. What next? She looked at the clock: nine fifty-five.
Rising shakily, she staggered to the washroom.
Tension hung in main ops like a chill mist. Molt, Celia, and Sarah sat at their stations, comm sets in place. The Marshall, three of his aides, and half a dozen Authority honchos stood behind them, watching. Soft music played in the background. Donny must have gotten the sound system working.
Molt approached, trying not to appear to rush and failing. He wore a new uniform—one that fit—and had cut his hair.
“Where’ve you been?” he whispered.
“Caseroom.” Made conscious of her ripped and stained uniform by his stare, she reached to straighten her collar. “Where’s Torre?”
“Downstairs, helping Artie.”
“Good,” said Merit, and meant it. Had she seen him, she was not sure she would have been able to restrain herself from wringing his neck.
Molt chewed his lower lip. “You missed the run-through.”
“I know.” She turned away from his anxious eyes and unfamiliar reproach in his voice.
Marshall Frey strode toward her, brushing Molt aside. His gold-shielded head was tilted back—aloof, judgmental. “Late again, Merit Rafi.”
“Better late than never.”
The tone of equality he had used in the canteen was gone. “I used to think a Retrospector was always dedicated to her profession, a model of excellence.”
“Guess I’m out of practice.”
“Is that what you call it? You disappear on the eve of the first Retrospection of the Third Continuum. You miss the final run-through. You show up looking like you’ve spent the night in a sewer. I call that untrustworthiness.”
“I never asked for your trust.”
“We can postpone. Much as we’d all hate to see that happen, there’s too much at stake to fail.”
Her glance slid off the Marshall’s shield and fell on the faces of her crew. Molt, fear adding depth to the look of worry on his face; Sarah, confused and uneasy; Celia, standing ever sideways, vulnerable, doubting.
Merit looked up into the Marshall’s gold face. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had an accident.” She touched the red area on her face. “But I’m ready to go. Ready to do my job.”
The Marshall inclined his head slightly, and the tension in the room melted. “Very well. We shall proceed. But this sort of thing has to stop.”
She straightened her jacket and felt it tug against the shoulder holster. “It won’t happen again.”
At ten forty-five, three antigrav autos left the JCP, headed for the Priory. The first contained the Marshall and his aides, the second, driven by the orderly, contained Merit and two Authority agents. Bringing up the rear was a garish antigrav van, carrying the Authority honchos.
Merit gazed out the window. Once they left the City behind, the drive was a pretty one. The River on their left sparkled green and white. The trees of the Wood were living symbols of faith and longevity. There was even a certain peacefulness about the ruins of the Conservatory, as the handiwork of the pilgrims slowly transformed the place into a shrine. As the vehicles crested the peanut-shaped hill, the Priory dome gleamed silver in the sunlight.
As before, Lazar met them on the portico. He bowed to Merit, then turned to the Marshall.
“I trust—”
The top Authority honcho stepped forward and flicked a finger at the Steward’s shield. “Take that off,” he said, then swaggered through the doors and into the ancient hall as if he owned it. Marshall Frey, unreadable behind his shield, followed, the grinning orderly in his wake.
Lazar removed his shield, laying bare the humiliation on his face as he turned to follow them.
Merit fell in beside him. “Guess he didn’t read the memo about you being a collaborator.”
“Not his fault.” The Steward’s eyes smoldered. “As far as I know, homo sapiens is the only species that knows how to read.”
“Zounds. There’s hope for you. And I say that not to flatter but as a fellow collaborator, and thus one who knows something about sarcasm.”
“There is no hope for me.” His anger had already burned out, replaced by something colder; something bigger. “If there’s a hell I’ll be burning in it long after you, with your simplistic idealism and blind fidelity to your insipid principles, have served your time and been invited to a rosewater hot tub with the Saints above.”
She studied his face. “Thus speaks the guilty conscience.”
“You should know.”
“Yeah.” His glance made her shiver. “Listen. You’re a historian. So, for the sake of the historical record: it wasn’t me who tried to poison the General.”
“You will forgive me for not believing you.”
“My alibi is airtight. Literally. A very small, airtight room at the Authority Hotel down by the River. You know, the one with no view and doors that only have knobs on the outside?”
“I didn’t know that. Then who did it?”
“No clue. Everyone I can think of who might have wanted to is dead.”
“My apologies.”
“Don’t mention it.” They reached the southeast tower and headed up the stairs. “I agree it looked suspicious. I’ve never actually killed anyone—yet—but I admit I once voted to effect a state-sanctioned execution. You remember. Two men with sharp knives cut their way into Zane’s tent, carrying a Resistance tondo. About eighteen months ago? I think you were there.”
He shot her a suspicious look. “I think I was.”
“As you know they botched it. Got caught. The General beat them bloody and locked them up.”
“Not an unjustified reaction, considering.”
“Yep. They had a tondo with them. What happened to it?”
“It’s around somewhere. Do you want it back?”
“No. But, it’s a funny thing to hang onto, isn’t it?”
“I believe the General kept it as a reminder of the unparalleled viciousness of former friends. I tried to help him, but it bothered him that what was left of the militia believed he was responsible for Abydos.”
“I bet. Pretty surprising, then, that he released the two gents sent to kill him.”
The Steward took four steps in silence, then spoke: “If I recall, they escaped on their ow
n.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Lazar’s jaw tightened, and he looked away.
“It was you, wasn’t it,” she said. “You let them go. Because you knew they were right to do what they were doing. That any man who would betray his own captains to their enemies deserved to die.”
They reached the foot of the tower stairs and stopped, as up ahead the Authority agents were talking with the JCP sentries.
Lazar put his mouth close to her ear. “After Zagor’s Cross there was no hope of military success. What was done at Abydos had to be done. It made truce the only option and shortened the war by two years.”
“We could have won.”
“If you knew anything about history, you would know that no one wins a war. The only conclusion we can draw is that war is the ultimate human evil. It has to be avoided, however high the cost might seem.”
The words, echoing the familiar pacifist argument, sickened her—but they also awakened a memory. She had heard them—read them—before. Recently. Ah.
“You wrote the General’s journals,” she said. “Don’t bother to deny it. I’ve heard the way the General spoke, and I’ve heard the way you speak, and I’ve read the journals. Your style is very distinctive.”
“I have no desire to deny it. It was always my job to do for the General what he could not do himself.”
“And give him all the credit.”
“Sometimes.” A muscle at the side of his mouth twitched. “At any rate, I did what I had to do.”
The shielded men ahead of them moved forward. “What will you do now?” asked Merit.
“Go somewhere far away and wait for a tondo to appear at my door.” He looked at her, and his eyes were empty but for some deep emotion she could not place. He spoke to her over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs. “See you in hell, Select.”
Zane’s study was guarded by two brawny sentries. The tall, handsome one in sage caught her eye and raised his eyebrows. Merit gave a slight shake of her head. He bit his lip and looked away.