PILLARS OF LIGHT AND FIRE: THE COMPLETE SERIES, page 112
Payam’s jaw twitched. “She has, because of what you and the Paladins did at Tripoli.”
“I wouldn’t call what we did at Tripoli anything other than a cluster fuck, as they say.”
“You saved many people there. And more at Kiev, percentage-wise.”
“We only knew part of what we were doing then. Arthur had us doing a lot of humanitarian work. Averting disaster was his thing, but you can’t predict a natural disaster versus a man-made disaster. As for Kiev, I wouldn’t know anything about Kiev, though I’d like to think we learned a thing or two.” T. S. tied his hair back, fingers running over the healing scab of the scrambler. What did this kid want? To talk about his sister? “We saved your sister at Tripoli.”
“She told me you saved her. You and your partner.” Payam pointed at T. S.
“Partner.” T. S. smiled, thinking of Isolde. “That she is.” He sat down. “Samira’s on Sword Team now, right? Does Morgan know she’s a Sun?”
Payam smiled and shook his head. “It doesn’t seem to be something worth pursuing.”
“She’s older?”
“She’s not all that much like me. She’s not very organized, but she’s very disciplined and adamantly atheist. That’s what makes it confusing.”
“Are you a religious man?” T. S. asked.
“Lapsed Catholic, as they say. What about yourself?”
“I am half Cherokee. It’s not a religion, but more of a belief system.”
“Animals and totems and gods?”
“You could say that, but perhaps a tad less condescendingly.” T. S. smoked and thought. “Do you think your sister’s conversion to the Suns is some religious awakening?”
“The way she speaks about it, it feels that way.”
“And how do you feel about the Suns?”
“I don’t feel anything about them. Perhaps they are a cult. It’s like the Jedi religion that’s sprung up. They can’t be true Jedi because the Jedi Order is completely made up.”
T. S. smiled. “Yes, there are quite a few Suns that were once part of some hokey religion. The Jedi aren’t real, but Paladins and Chevaliers are. There’s the superstitious—supernatural—around things, even when a technology is involved.”
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
“There’s that.”
“Are there any Paladins that are Suns?”
T. S. frowned. “What does it mean to be a Sun?”
“I would think that you’d know. Do the Paladins work with the Suns?”
“That’s the billion-dollar question,” T. S. said. He debated the answer, thought about his journalism tour and countless meetings with the Suns. “The Suns are an organic entity started by Taliesin in New York City after the Fourth Street collapse.”
Payam shook his head. “That’s common knowledge, though Bard Taliesin doesn’t profess to be a Sun.”
“He’s a big advocate of the Paladins and a founding member of the Suns. Cults and religion are tricky things. Often, they never get out of the infancy stage, but in the Information Age, they take root more easily. Whether or not he meant it to be a movement, it became one. Now there are Suns all around the world in different guises, and there are plenty in the US.”
“But the difference between most world religions and the Suns is that those religions deal with gods as ideas, ideals, and lessons about the world. Augments”—Payam chewed on the word thoughtfully—“are none of those things.”
“That’s right. They are real and living. It’s all well to talk about the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama or the Son of God, but it’s different to talk of Arthur MacGabran. He’s just a human.”
“Some Suns argue that there’s a touch of divinity to the Paladins.” Payam frowned at this.
T. S. shrugged and blew smoke. “How many of your Chevaliers believe they have a touch of the divine? What about your sister? How many of those who work for the corps? More than you think. That’s something Paladins have to be careful about. Claiming no divinity is as bad as claiming divinity in the eyes of those who want to see what they wish.”
“So, you claim nothing?”
“You know the technology. Is there anything divine in it?”
“There’s more divinity in where you show up than your abilities,” Payam agreed.
“That, my friend, is a whole other level of interesting. I can’t explain.” T. S. sat down on the bed and then lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Have you talked to your sister about it?”
“We have. It’s complicated,” Payam said, staring down at his glass. “If it’s a cult, I’m concerned she may head down a path that leads to ruin.”
“You haven’t reported her,” T. S. said.
“I can’t be sure.”
“I can say the Suns at this point in time are benevolent. The Paladins don’t control them.” T. S. considered saying more but let it go for the moment. His thoughts turned back to Isolde. “How is my partner?”
“Stable,” Payam said, finishing his drink with another fit of coughing. “I must warn you, the powers that be aren’t offering the same protections that Ms. LaFayette expressed. If we determine Miss Marks’s suit is unusable or may be destroyed if removed, they may throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
“Mm,” T. S. said.
“You’re not angry?”
“It hasn’t happened. Why should I feel anger?” T. S. sat up. “I wonder though . . .”
Payam stood, replacing the glass at the bar.
“I wonder if you would do me a favor, as you appear to be a man unafraid of doing things that may seem to be . . . unacceptable to your employers.”
Payam waited. He seemed indecisive.
“You could take a message to someone.”
“A message? Someone to break you out of here, perhaps?”
T. S. shook his head. “I’m not looking to break out. You think I got in here by accident?” He smiled at Payam’s shock. Let that settle a little and perhaps the doubt can be fostered. “I take it there are protesters outside the Citadel?”
“Friends of yours? Suns maybe?”
“Maybe. Without Ms. LaFayette, it seems you are on borrowed time.”
“Bold words for a prisoner.”
“I’m a bold man.” T. S. finished his drink. “Contact a Sun—someone with the mark, not someone who claims to be a Sun.”
“The mark?”
“Any scar or tattoo of the sun or three rings.”
“Seems conspicuous.”
T. S. smiled. “Religions self-organize and choose their symbols.”
“And the message? If I send it.” Payam adjusted his glasses and put his hands in his pockets.
“‘Protect the Citadel.’”
“That’s it? Really?”
T. S. smiled and stood. He shook Payam’s hand. “Thank you for the drink and talk.”
“This isn’t good-bye.”
“No, it’s not, but I’m reminded that I should thank those who show kindness. That’s important.”
“No promises. I’m not even sure why I was really here.” Payam gave him a curious look and then left.
T. S. sat back down. Again, he felt the press of the surrounding walls despite the spaciousness of his confines. He missed his suit and flying high over mountains . . . He feared those days were long over now as his thoughts turned to darker things.
34
Assault at Dawn
KANTON ISLAND, SOUTH PACIFIC—
Indiana felt an anxiousness she hadn’t felt in some time. She wanted to find Morgan and bring her home safely. That was the mission. That was perfect.
Indiana closed her eyes and focused on that point of light inside herself. She worked through the forms, the motions of the epée, the saber, the foil, then the kendo sword and katana. The mind makes the motions. The motions are the form. The form is the truth. The world faded away as that part of herself lived to be what she always wanted to be. It hadn’t always been this way. She hadn’t always been alone.
She thought of her days wandering through the cold roads of the Russian state. She couldn’t practice, and as she grew heavy with child, her mind had to focus when her body refused. She hadn’t been alone then. Now, with the regimen and practice, her focus had sharpened to a fine point. She felt the muscles and nerves of her body beneath the skin, responding with the faintest echo of movement. She felt the dull ache from the gunshot wound, but with manifest it wouldn’t slow her down. She slid into the fugue state.
Small flashes of voices echoed in her mind. They weren’t memories but impressions again. They weren’t good. She focused. The mind, the motions, the form . . .
* * *
Indiana stood before the prone form of Isolde Marks. She’d been on her way to the medical wing for the regimen session, perhaps a dose of the hypnotic that kept the past at bay. Instead, she’d come here, to the Decanting Wing, to see this woman. Why?
She watched the monitors and saw nothing out of the ordinary. She studied the face, but only an impression of who the woman was came to her, and it bothered her. She should know this woman. She should love this person, she told herself. She’d been her friend once, long ago. She was a Paladin. She studied the woman’s hands. She wore rings, just like Arondight and Secace. They were dark and dull on the woman’s slender fingers. She was thin, but somehow Indiana had always known this. Her eyes were deep set, and her strawberry blond hair was swept back from her face as she lay prostrate.
Indiana had no answers. She went looking for them. But Indiana couldn’t move, and she realized this was a memory, something recent she’d slipped into. Isolde opened her eyes. They were wrong. They should have been gray, but instead they were bright blue. Isolde didn’t move, but she focused her eyes on Indiana. It would’ve been shocking for Indiana, but warmth and love spread through her.
“Mommy,” Isolde said. “Indiana.”
“Gal,” Indiana breathed. “I want to be with you,” she whispered, her heart breaking. She didn’t stop going through the motions in her mind that held her in this place, this memory within her fugue state. She took Isolde’s hand. The rings were cool, but Isolde’s hand was warm. Isolde/Gal gripped Indiana’s hand and smiled.
“Change the rules. Burn the control away. Resist, because I can’t break what they’ve done to you.”
“I was broken already.”
“Never broken. Only seemed to be so. You are . . . as you’ve always been, Mother.”
Indiana held herself to the forms, the motions. Her body bathed in power.
“If you kill him, it will serve her purpose and not your own. Burn it away . . .”
Indiana whispered and the sunburst of rage broke her fugue. “Kill him.”
* * *
Indiana opened her eyes with a gasp. Her halo dimmed as she brought herself back to threshold. The new Pommel watched her curiously, but none of the other Sword members had noticed. Would she put the monster down if it got out of the box? Perhaps they all would.
“Comm check,” Indiana said to Sword Team. One by one, the group checked in on their comms system. Indiana tested her backup comm circuit and pulse-detection subsystem.
She activated the satellite communication link attached to her suit to uplink to one of the GCI satellites. She’d switched back into the red Chevalier uniform at the beginning of this final flight. The southern GC responded, “Uplink established. Southern GC has already vectored to coordinates.” She glanced into her heads-up display and stood, helmet in hand. They’d been in the air for hours, having refueled once on their flight cross-country. Sword Team was in a modified cargo plane once used in the early days of Chevalier Corporation. The plane had been retired and reconditioned off the books. The intelligence agencies knew about it but would think it still mothballed.
By the time they had figured where Sword had gone, they were in the air on a West Coast–bound flight. Now they were over the Pacific, turning south. The transponder signal was clear and halfway across the world. Morgan was alive, or it was a trap. Either way, they’d know.
“Any change?” Pommel asked.
Indiana checked the coordinates with the code in her helmet. It hadn’t changed location in the hours since they’d received the first message. “Been the same for the last seven hours,” Indiana replied.
“What does that mean?”
“Means they haven’t moved.”
“Look at you, being a wiseass for once.” Crossguard smirked.
Indiana smiled and went to the flight deck. New pilots had boarded on their last leg and the location had a landing strip but no place to refuel. Guard was monitoring the radio. He turned when she entered. “They have enough fuel to drop, circle, and return once we give the all clear.”
“Do we have an alternate means of transportation?”
“We could call up an Embed Team on SATCOM if we need it.”
“Are you thinking a US team?”
“They’d be the closest, though a few hours out.”
Indiana shook her head. “No. Only if we need it. Who else do you have?” She didn’t want the US knowing what was going on outside its borders. Sheath had advised her of as much, so she took it in good faith. The US intelligence machine was extensive but could be cumbersome.
He pulled up the chart on his tablet. The coordinates were on Kanton Island, part of the Phoenix Islands. Phoenix. Was that a message? Indiana wondered. Phoenix burns . . .
“The New Zealand Embed Team. They can charter a craft. Might take a few days though.”
“We’ll have to do that. Don’t alert them. We’re still dark.”
“Roger,” Guard said. “We’ll stay in contact with the flight crew and radio when we’re clear. There’s an airstrip they could land on—”
“No.” Indiana shook her head. “I don’t want them to land until it’s clear.”
Guard shrugged. “If they go bingo fuel, they’ll fly back to land at Oahu, then.”
“How long is that?”
Guard checked the instruments and the chart. “Looks like they’ll have twenty, maybe thirty minutes on station, tops.”
“That’ll work. If we drop on top of her beacon and we find nothing, there won’t be anything to pick up and we’ll have them relay the message and send another plane. I don’t think that airfield has fuel. If we do find something . . . Let’s keep it flexible.”
Indiana looked out at the night. Dawn was just breaking. All she saw was an expanse of black sky and blacker ocean. The pilots were paid well for this long-haul “routine” flight. The funds would be traceable back to Chevalier Corps, but by the time it’d been flagged and investigated, this matter would be resolved. She went back to the passenger compartment and checked the time on Pommel’s screen.
“Ready ten,” she said to her team. She put on her helmet, the heads-up display blinking to life. She saw the southern GC overlay now that the commands had been sent. It would provide coverage if someone hit them with an EMP. Guard came back as the lights inside clicked red for night. The surrounding team was a flurry of efficient activity. Pommel and Ricasso checked the grid drones at the after section of the plane while Guard and Crossguard made final checks to everyone’s parachutes. Ricasso carried the SATCOM link on his chest. It was rugged and he could ditch it until things were calm. Indiana checked her parachute. Be perfect. Mission. Chev One. Kill Arthur. The white-hot rage spiked as the last one registered. Her focus intensified.
She checked the grids—GCI available in fifteen minutes, and the grid drones hummed in standby. She motioned and the team members went to the cargo door. Once they all gave the thumbs-up, she shut the door behind her, sealed it, and hit the “Depressurize” button. The pressure bled out of the after section and the back door opened. They shoved the torpedo-shaped drones out the back of the plane nose-first. They dropped, their fins unfolding as they vanished into the night. Guard radioed the all clear with the pilots and the plane dove. Pommel and Ricasso checked their grid-drone displays and gave thumbs-up. The drones had launched successfully. Indiana saw the blinking positive indicators for the two drones. “Three!” Indiana shouted over the roar of wind.
They snapped their faceplates into place, looking like ruddy aliens in the red light. Indiana held on to the strap as the plane leveled off. They were still descending by her display’s altimeter.
The black water streaked below them, sparkling in the night. They were at a routine traffic height, which was well over ten thousand feet. She gave them the signal and jumped from the plane.
Every time she was in free fall, it felt familiar. This time, it was like a mirror. Long ago, she’d done this without a parachute. When was that? She’d survived, but that might’ve been when her memory problems began. She wondered why she’d decided to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Then there was a flash of memory, the dark hair and long, pale face of a woman watching her from a tiny window, and stars—surrounded by infinite stars.
She watched the thin strip of earth rush up at her. She angled her body like an arrow, speeding up to terminal velocity and homing in on Chev One’s beacon. They were just coming over land now, bleeding forward airspeed quickly. She saw a black, bulky shape ahead of and below her—a plane or vehicle. She pulled the ripcord. The drag snapped her body back and reoriented her feet down toward the earth. She wouldn’t slow down in time to have a smooth landing, but then again, she wasn’t human. Her body flared with manifest. At the last second, she hit the release and her chute detached. She slammed into the sandy ground at half the speed she’d begun with. He KE field absorbed the impact and her body flared. Sword Team landed around her in a nice spread line. Good formation. She snapped the quick releases that got her out of the parachute harness.
She flicked Secace to life and advanced on the black ship. Black and white shapes moved toward her. Waveblades flared to life, and Sword rallied with their red leader. The transponder coordinates were at the ship in her heads-up display. The sun peeked over the horizon, giving everything an ethereal, colorized feel. The Paladins in black and white suits reacted, their helmets wrapping around their heads.
