Hell or Highwater (Hell's Jesters, #5), page 45
Tim pulled her closer. She was there! Her body curved into his as he put his arms around her, let his right hand rise to her hair, let his fingers play in an auburn curl.
“It’s not too late, is it?” she whispered.
“Oh, baby, there’s no way that could ever be.” He squeezed her to him, hard, took in the reality of her. “You’re still one of us. Always.”
She worked her hands up to his face, cupped it in them. “And I’ve been away too long.”
“Damn right.”
He leaned into her and the kiss was as real as the heart hammering inside his own chest.
Part 6 – The Remnants
HOLOGRAPHIC RECEPTOR ON>>>
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>UNION-BROADCAST-RESTRICTED>>>RECEPTION>>> Ansolm Levine stands once more at the podium before the Union Senate, looking grave and holding a holopad in one hand. “I’d like to thank the Senator from Loudon for granting me her time so that I might address you all.”
“The vote will go forward!” someone calls down from the galley.
Levine smiles combatively as some of the Senators growl in agreement. “Oh, of that I have no doubt.” He holds up the holopad. “But before it does, I thought it prudent you all have one more piece of information for your deliberations.”
Cupp stiffens in his seat, straightens his glasses, and leans forward. “What are you playing at now, Levine?”
“No game, Senators,” Levine replies, deliberately ignoring Cupp. “Just news of the utmost importance.” A smile spreads across his lips. “News that will be of great joy to all who love the Union and freedom!”
The Senators mutter and shift in their seats. Someone calls out, demands to know what it is.
Levine shakes the holopad. “I have received news by ether-tenna and now, this morning, by hyperpod from our brave Union Fleet. Admiral Greer and his ships have met the Alliance Navy in battle in the Surigao System” he looks all around the chamber, grinning as his audience tenses “and have defeated them.”
Shock stills the Senate.
Then uproar shakes it. Men and women are on their feet, some flinging arms around one another, some overcome with emotion, some demanding to know more.
“Victory, ladies and gentlemen!” Levine shouts to booming acclamation. “The details are still coming in, but it is clear we have a decisive victory!”
The columns and windows of the chamber shudder to the applause. In the midst of the human-made earthquake, Senate President Cupp sinks into his seat, suddenly lost, forgotten in the din as supporters drift away to join the cheers.
“The Alliance Fleet has been wrecked and is fleeing back across the border as I speak,” Levine proclaims. “The Union stands, ladies and gentlemen! Union forever!”
“Union forever!” the Senate booms back at it him.
“Union fo—”
BLOCK>>>BLOCK>>>HOSTILE OR UNPARTIOTIC CONTENT>>>BLOCK>>>
REACQUIRING>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> The viewpoint is from outside the massive city-block-sized dome of the Alliance Assembly Building. Marble stairs gleam under a hot, midday Nova Terra sun, leading up to the columned entrances all around its periphery. Along these stairs, arrayed in alternating ranks, stand motionless, faceless black-clad Council Guardsmen.
All are armed. None acknowledge the Assemblymen and their staffs, filing between them into the building. Questions are ignored.
The view shifts to the interior of the Assembly amphitheater chamber. More Guardsmen line every aisle, block the stairs down to the floor, flank every entrance and exit. Again, all are armed. And a terrible hush grips the Assembly as it gathers to its seats.
Alexi Noovin stands alone on the dais of the High Council, watching them all. The other seats are empty and there is no sign of his peers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he speaks up, “I know this is unusual and I apologize for the inconvenience. But these men are here for your safety.”
“Where is the Council?” someone calls down to him.
“Moved to alternate locations for their own protection,” Noovin replies. “Now, please, everyone, take your seats. We have much to discuss.”
“What is happening?” Assemblyman Farrow stands from his bench, his voice quavering just slightly. “What is the meaning of all of this, Noovin?”
Noovin glares down at him. A glance about the chamber seems to reassure him and he says, “The meaning of all of this, Assemblyman, is that the Alliance is, as of this morning, in a state of greatest emergency.”
Murmurs greet his words and people squirm in their benches. But none seem to want to get too close to the Guardsmen, hovering at the end of every tier. Farrow sinks back to his bench, glancing uneasily at his fellow representatives.
“We have received word of great calamity from the front,” Noovin says gravely. “Admiral Severson has been defeated.”
A terrible groan lifts from the Assembly. Faces blanch. Hands cup mouths. People sag.
“More than defeated,” Noovin rumbles over the din. “Betrayed, it seems. Reports seem to indicate surprise and ambush. The Union appears to have obtained our plans and used them to the fullest advantage.” He looks around the chamber. “Severson has salvaged what he can of our fleet and is withdrawing to within Alliance space.”
“How could this happen?” someone bawls from one of the lower tiers.
“Treachery!” Noovin snarls. “Treason! But it’s more than any one defeat, ladies and gentlemen! We have also learned that transuranic shortages have become even more acute than previously projected. Fraud has hidden this from us. Lies and profiteering have hidden it! We face a mass transportation crisis, along with our military crisis, both of which can only be dealt with by the most severe of measures.”
“What measures?” Farrow demands.
“And finally,” Noovin goes on, notably ignoring the Assemblyman, “we have learned of conspiracy. In fact, it probably doesn’t go too far to suggest all of this is linked. But the AIB has reported to the Council a plot to overthrow this Assembly after the elections—”
SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 422826>>>RECEPTION>>> Kathleen Kerrigan stares vacantly as suited men lead her in handcuffs from the front of her home on Prospero. Someone is crying, a child perhaps, the racket of it hoarse and carrying from within the house. The men lead her out to the street where an armored hovercar awaits.
“What is this?” someone shouts from the other side of the street.
Council Guardsmen are fanning out around the residence. Onlookers are being corralled away. HoloMedia camped out at the end of the street are being waved off.
“What are they doing?” the person who spoke before slips between the Guardsmen and approaches the car. A middle-aged woman, her casual attire suggests she is a neighbor.
Kerrigan looks up, seems to notice the woman, notice her surroundings for the first time. Blackness rings her eyes. A fresh bruise is darkening a cheek. The glimpse of her is lost as she is shoved headfirst into the vehicle.
“Get back!” one of the Guardsmen snarls, stepping into the neighbor woman’s path. He sets a gauntleted hand on her shoulder and pushes. “Now!”
SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> “This is lunacy!” Farrow exclaims from his seat.
“This is confirmed,” Noovin replies coldly. “The AIB has all the evidence. Assemblywoman Kerrigan is implicated in the plot. Grantholm is, as well, and our sources suggest he was murdered when he balked and planned to spill the whole scheme” Noovin pauses to look around “this morning during his committee presentation.”
“Where is this supposed evidence?” Farrow asks, standing once more. “I demand to see it!”
The rest of the Assembly shifts and begins to rumble in agreement. But their fervor cools when Noovin nods to one of the Guardsmen, who shoulders his way in from the aisle and comes to stand beside Farrow, faceless mask glowering down. Shivering, Farrow shrinks back to his bench.
“You will have it when it’s ready,” Noovin says. “You will all have a full accounting. But for the time being we must address these multiple crises. We don’t have time for debate. We need decisive action if we’re to salvage the situation—aye, if we are to salvage our great Alliance!”
Utter silence greets Noovin’s words.
“To that end, I have asked for and received from the rest of the High Council their unanimous consent to request from this body their vote for the Ultimate Decree.” He scans the Assembly members slowly, deliberately, his last glance lingering for a moment on Farrow, now fully-cowed by the looming Guardsman.
“The Ultimate Decree,” Noovin repeats, “granting one High Councilor supreme executive authority to last no longer than one, standard galactic year.” He holds up both hands, almost beseechingly. “But I can’t do it without you, friends.”
The silence from the Assembly drags, broken by the occasional shift of one of the Guardsmen, prowling to a different spot to eye the representatives, adjusting the weight of gear and armor.
Fingering a trigger.
“The Decree requires the consent of the Assembly.” Noovin’s smile is as warm as a skull’s. “I’d ask you all to grant that to me. Now.”
BRADLEY BOXER, FORMER CEO of Syntar Fleet Corporation, former tenant of the Alliance Penal System, former patsy in a galaxy-spanning scheme he thought he controlled sat on the bridge of a stolen starship and glared at the HoloNews feed. Images of black-clad troopers menacing Assemblymen brought a fragile smile to his lips, but only for an instant. A surge of rage collapsed it and he killed the hologram with a jab of his finger.
He did it, Boxer thought. Noovin, the slimy double-talking bastard, he finally did it, took it all. He shook his head. Oh, Alexi, you really were playing the long game, weren’t you? And you were always going to be the one at the top, no others. I should have seen it.
But it’s not over.
A single icon blinked from the navigation hologram, off to one side. Boxer sighed and pivoted his chair to face it.
“You’re sure that’s the place?”
“Shangri-La,” the cruel, vaguely female voice of the AI answered him. “Deep into Union territory, so far out the Alliance would never waste time on it—and so far out the Union would never waste resources to defend it.”
“But it’s defended, all right,” he growled back.
“After the fighting of the last couple weeks, my estimates indicate the Jesters will be significantly diminished in strength,” the machine—Ghost in the Machine—replied. “The time is right.”
“Would have been happier had we been able to acquire more firepower.”
Boxer flicked another control. A tactical hologram materialized to show four starships, huddled together in an empty tract of space several light minutes out from Shangri-La. A quick hyper jump would put them at the system’s edge. An old Syntar-built space control ship, accompanied by a trio of drone tenders, each bringing two dozen of the once-ubiquitous Syntar Mark II hunter-killer drone fighters.
Not the juggernaut the now-defunct corporation would have once been able to throw out over a world. But as much as the former CEO and his rogue AI conspirator had been able to scavenge and steal in the rush of the last few months.
“It will be enough,” Ghost replied.
“It’ll have to be.”
Boxer leaned back in his seat and pondered his surroundings, his strange life after death, so to speak. The bridge was deserted, as was the rest of the vessel, run by the super-intelligence that had sprung him from a Penal transport and drawn him into its web of hate and vengeance. Now that the AI had made use of Boxer’s knowledge of Syntar’s old systems and facilities to hijack the small fleet, a small part of him shivered in fear. The machine didn’t really need him, anymore. But It seemed to have imprinted on him, nevertheless, a—he wasn’t sure he’d call it fondness—but a bond.
Bonded to a rogue artificial intelligence that claimed to have been born from another, used by the Jesters to carry out their depredations. And now sworn to destroy them. And maybe everything.
Boxer did shiver now. Madness. But what else did he have?
“You fret,” the AI needled him. “Always the human anxieties. My calculations are solid. We will catch them by surprise and destroy them.”
“And after that?”
Ghost in the Machine’s hesitation did not reassure.
“We shall see.”
THE BOARDING RAMP OF the Taurus cracked open and a blast of sound met the yacht’s passengers.
Tina Rodann grimaced at the racket—cheers, she realized after a moment. They were being cheered from the surrounding jungle as they came out into a sultry Shangri-La afternoon. And as Dad and Josie led the way, descending the ramp before even it even finished thumping to the grassy loam of the clearing, Jesters spilled forth from every direction to greet them.
“Come on, shithead,” she told Julian, jerking him along by one of his arms, bound behind his back.
The Jesters had no space large enough to house the yacht. So, Control had directed them to the open ground just north of the gorge that housed the rest of the organization. Hovertrucks were rumbling up to the parked craft, bringing crews and droids to begin the work of securing it. The crowds seemed to have come on foot.
They met Dad and Josie as the pair set feet on the grass. That spritely, blue-haired kid raced ahead of the rest, flung herself into Dad’s arms so hard he grunted at the impact. She was sobbing by the time she detached herself, then resumed as she lurched into Josie. Others crowded close by then, congratulations, pats on the back, more embraces.
A hero’s welcome.
“It’s not going to work,” Julian said petulantly.
Tina paused in her descent to turn to him and snarl, “Did anyone ask you?”
The Methuselah quavered a little before her fury. The bruising of his now-crooked nose had gone ugly yellow-brown at the bridge and below his depthless eyes. But a hint of cruel smile curled up the corner of his lips. “You know it’s true.”
“I know that you’re going to behave yourself,” she snapped, “or your visit here is going to be real damned uncomfortable. Now shut up!”
Practically dragging the man, Tina came down the ramp, fully into the damp heat and hazy light. People were noticing her now, as well as her prisoner. Questioning looks blossomed. Whispers began.
But the cheering and greetings drowned them out.
Tina grimaced again, not just at the sound or the light.
The vision was back.
She’d hammered it down, crushed it, she thought, into the back corner of her psyche. But it kept filtering back. That damned Old Sol painting.
The Matchmaker.
Such a weird image. A dark room, lit only by a single candle. A girl, smiling by its light as she sat at a table. A boy, more shadow than man, facing her from the other side. Their hands reaching for one another. Smiles. But all of it enveloped by shadow, and that shadow seeming to creep closer, to be devouring them, their fragile moment of happiness.
The image always distorted in Tina’s memory, took on a sinister dimension. An older woman lingered at the periphery, the titular figure, Tina had assumed. The feeble light highlighted satisfaction on her aged face—and perhaps more. Was there avarice there? Was there calculation? Was she of the darkness, come to claim her prize? Was she the puppet-master, bringing the fates together, the only one really in charge?
Puppets...that’s what we are...
That’s what that strange, eerily-kind torturer’s-assistant—the mole from the Chiaroscuro—had insisted, when the others left them alone and she showed Tina the painting from an ancient era over and over again. And she fed her Anton’s message of rebellion.
The other interrogators had beaten a similar message into her, but from another source.
And more.
Tina gave herself a shake.
Dad was letting out a shout of surprise and joy. The crowd was parting to let a new pair through and he rushed forth to grab someone up into his arms. Auburn hair flashed as he whirled the newcomer up and away from a grinning Tim Watkins. Laughter filled the air, though a slightly darker undercurrent rippled through some of the Jesters watching. Dad set the woman down and held her at arm’s length.
Tina tensed. Julian groaned as her fingers gipped tight about his arm with the reflex.
Kelly Harrison.
Sweat greased Tina’s flesh. Her scalp crawled and her nerves seethed. She could liken the sensation to nothing in her experience, save stumbling across a corpse on a day-old battlefield, left to the ravages of nature. The same revulsion. The same need to do something about it.
Bury it. Bury it all.
Bury her.
A circle of warmth and affection and chatter accreted around Dad and Harrison. Red was joining them now. Tina could hear none of the words, but the triumphant smiles and eyes glittering with relief told the tale. This was the Jesters, reunited after so much hardship and loss. Their comradery, their love was the candle glowing in the dark.
But the dark encroached from all around.
Tina glared at Kelly Harrison, knowing the spike of frantic hate had no source in her own heart, had been inserted there painstakingly. With anguish, she fought it. But she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t tell anyone, warn anyone, beg anyone for help.
Couldn’t act upon it.
Yet.
It took everything she had to keep her free hand away from the blaster at her hip.
But with despair, she knew the time would come.
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