|
Post by JenGe on Oct 15, 2005 10:25:33 GMT -5
I have just added the following Prologue for a new EQ fan fiction by Amie to the site...
(edited since the chaper is now posted below)
Enjoy!!
|
|
|
Post by Witcher Wolf on Oct 17, 2005 15:39:08 GMT -5
Not bad at all
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 19, 2005 23:55:42 GMT -5
Thanks, ClericWolf! I was inspired to write Equilibrium fan fiction after reading all the stories on the website, including yours! For those who would like to download the Adobe PDF file I created of the story so far, the link is here.
|
|
|
Post by Witcher Wolf on Oct 21, 2005 6:35:59 GMT -5
|
|
|
Post by Sontin-JudasFm on Oct 23, 2005 16:24:28 GMT -5
I did start reading this when it was first put up, then something came up and I had to stop; this is the first chance I've had to get back to it. So: *clears throat* I have to say that I really like this one so far; it's completely original and I think you have a great writing style! I'll be interested to see what happens next (am especially interested in finding out which items Preston required and how he's going to use them; you've got my curiosity going now ) Looking forward to more!
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 23, 2005 20:34:45 GMT -5
Thank you for the encouragement, Judas! I've also been enjoying your fiction, especially Project Tau. I can almost see this story playing in my mind like a great action/sci-fi movie. Can't wait for the rest! I hope you won't be too disappointed in my fan fiction. It's not as original as you say, I'm thinking it's a mishmash of all my favorite movies and genres -- action, adventure, science fiction, romance-- mostly romance. It's written mostly from a woman's point of view (guys out there might not like it although I tried to add some action). With influences from Equilibrium of course, and James Bond, Gladiator, and other movies and stories (like Hamlet), I wrote it for my own enjoyment, because I really liked creating an extended world based on John Preston and the Clerics. Whether others will enjoy it as well, only time will tell.
|
|
|
Post by JenGe on Oct 25, 2005 11:58:05 GMT -5
Chapter 1 is on site...
(edited since the chaper is now posted below)
Amie, I really love the blending of the fantasy element with EQ...very, very nice!!
|
|
|
Post by Witcher Wolf on Oct 25, 2005 15:48:48 GMT -5
Not all guys are just into action
|
|
|
Post by Witcher Wolf on Oct 25, 2005 15:50:14 GMT -5
Thanks, ClericWolf! I was inspired to write Equilibrium fan fiction after reading all the stories on the website, including yours! I forgot to ask, did you read: Fate's Hand?
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 25, 2005 16:28:37 GMT -5
I read all the EQ fan fiction on the website, including your story "Ashes." That was a great read! I was just starting to surf the message boards for more fiction and came across "Fate's Hand" today. I haven't been able to read it yet, I will later though. Maybe there should be a page with all the links to the non-EQ fiction laid out just like the EQ fiction to make them more easily accessible??
|
|
|
Post by JenGe on Oct 25, 2005 23:25:54 GMT -5
Maybe there should be a page with all the links to the non-EQ fiction laid out just like the EQ fiction to make them more easily accessible?? If someone wants to create a thread indexing these (like the Topics one on the main board) I'll make it sticky on the top of this forum and then link it on that site.
|
|
|
Post by mawa on Oct 26, 2005 8:50:10 GMT -5
A very interesting read Frankly, after the Prologue I was bit confused and surprisd that instead of Libria you set the action in a different, fantasy world on a different planet. But still this is a well written and interesting story. After reading Chapter 1 I became sure that I'll be following this story closely. To put it short: well done. Keep on with the good work
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 26, 2005 9:12:00 GMT -5
Frankly, after the Prologue I was bit confused and surprisd that instead of Libria you set the action in a different, fantasy world on a different planet. All will be explained in a future chapter.
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 26, 2005 9:13:40 GMT -5
BTW thank you for your encouragement MaWa! This is my very first fan fiction and although I really enjoy the story myself it doesn't mean others will!
|
|
|
Post by mawa on Oct 26, 2005 9:21:06 GMT -5
This is my very first fan fiction and although I really enjoy the story myself it doesn't mean others will! Maybe first, but a good one. So far I enjoy it
|
|
|
Post by Sontin-JudasFm on Oct 26, 2005 9:26:40 GMT -5
Thank you for the encouragement, Judas! I've also been enjoying your fiction, especially Project Tau. I can almost see this story playing in my mind like a great action/sci-fi movie. Can't wait for the rest! *blushes* Thanks Amie; it always means a lot to know people are still reading and enjoying my stuff Talking about reading stuff, just finished Chapter One. Wow. And wow. And even more wow. I am officially hooked now; that was a truly fantastic chapter ;D I love the little snippets of background history you give; it really makes the characters come alive Eagerly awaiting Chapter 2...
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Oct 26, 2005 9:56:20 GMT -5
Thanks so much, Judas! Chapter 2 is already finished and just needs another proofread (and another, and another). I hope you won't be too disappointed!
|
|
|
Post by Cleric Claire on Nov 3, 2005 9:59:35 GMT -5
I really liked it! Seriously, you're quite talented.
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 3, 2005 10:21:13 GMT -5
Thank you Claire! You're very sweet for saying so!!
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 8, 2005 23:40:24 GMT -5
I'm putting up all the chapters I've written so far. I know it's rather long (y'all probably wonder if I'm writing a book or something); I've been writing in my spare time on my laptop. Please tell me what you all think of the story so far. Any feedback, good, bad or indifferent, is appreciated. I'll make whatever changes that needs to be done. I'll put each chapter in a post of its own since I'm only allowed a certain amount of characters per post. Thanks! PROLOGUE
The small planet of Tereus imported much of its food from neighboring planets, having only 2% arable land and 95% of its surface covered with water. Tereus’s wealth lay in its natural marine resources and oceanic industries, exporting tons of its prized sea life and maritime products from Navarre, the capital of Tereus.
Navarre was the jewel of Tereus, a large, sprawling city that overlooked the Bay of Vulcan. Its interplanetary terminal was the convergence of the flow of commerce and travel into and out of the planet.
In the terminal, transport ships disgorged the contents of their massive cargo holds. A steady stream of enormous sealed containers, crates, machines, workers, and passengers flowed out as outgoing cargo flowed in. Outside the terminal, the crowds swarmed in the markets, where shops that hawked all sorts of food and merchandise from a hundred planets packed every available space on the streets.
Here were to be found rich and poor, tourists and businessmen, beggars and house servants, dockworkers and fishermen, police and pickpockets. This flow of humanity was the perfect place for one who wished to disappear.
One of the offworld passengers left the terminal and immediately blended into the throng, threading his way without seeming purpose through the streets. He was dressed unremarkably as a well-to-do businessman, carrying nothing more than a single black bag.
He had left the more populated parts of the waterfront and wandered ever deeper into the bowels of the city. There, even the police refused to patrol.
The businessman walked on with seeming unconcern for his surroundings, turning corners and going down deserted alleys with a confidence that might have forced one to conclude that he had been there before. But he had, in fact, never been to Tereus. The map was in his mind, his uncanny sense of direction his only guide.
The man suddenly stopped. Out of the dusky shadows skulked several figures and slowly surrounded him.
He looked around casually. In three seconds he had thoroughly assessed the situation: twelve rough-looking thugs, crude street fighters armed with knives and truncheons.
“A bit lost, aren’t ya, Johnny?” One who appeared to be the leader stepped forward. He was tall and broad, with a barrel of a chest and hands like slabs of meat.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“What are you doin’ here?”
“That’s my business.”
“Anyone who comes through our territory is our business,” the leader growled. “Did you think you can jus’ walk through here?”
“Well – yes.”
The thug suddenly stepped closer, his eyes on the bag in the man’s hand. “What’s in the bag?” “Clothes, my toothbrush, shaving articles, deodorant, soap. Nothing of interest to you.”
“A johnny like you don’t travel with no money. Come on, hand it over.”
“Look, I need to be somewhere, so I’ll just go on my way.” He moved to walk past him.
“Not so fast, pansy.” The ruffian barred his way menacingly. “I told you it’s our business. Either you give us the bag or we’ll do some work on your face that only a plastic surgeon can fix.”
The man said quietly, “Why don’t you take it from me?”
“I think I will.”
The thug reached down. In another second, there was the sickening crack of breaking bone, a shriek of pain, and the thug was kneeling on the street, staring down in shock at his arm. His forearm hung at an unnatural angle.
The other eleven came at him with knives drawn, cursing. The results were the same. The man moved with a precise, deadly grace, executing a blurred series of kicks, punches and jabs that incapacitated one thug after another in less time than it takes to describe it.
Leaving twelve men groaning or unconscious on the street, the man picked up his bag and continued walking. There was not a single scratch on him.
In the shadows, two men looked at each other. One of them activated a small transceiver and spoke into it in a low voice.
“Heads up, man. He’s coming your way now. And, Jack? He’s one scary dude.”
~~~~~~~
The rebel headquarters was an abandoned warehouse, guarded heavily in 5-hour shifts. Five armed men, rifles cocked and ready, escorted the businessman to a room at one side of the warehouse.
It was some sort of conference room. A long, low table and several chairs were scattered, maps and charts were pinned to the walls.
A young man rose from behind the table, while the three others who were in the room regarded the newcomer with intense curiosity.
“Ah, I’m so glad you could come, Mr. Preston,” the young man said, in surprisingly educated, upper-class accents. He came forward and held out his hand. “Jack Gerard, at your service.”
Preston shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“You have to forgive us for the location, but I’m sure you understand our caution. This ghetto is like a maze, one that the police and security forces tend to avoid.” He didn’t bother to mention that letting him walk through the ghetto alone was a sort of test by fire. “Did you – ah— have any trouble finding the place?”
“No, I had no trouble at all.”
Gerard nodded and gestured to a chair. “Please, sit down, Mr. Preston.”
The man sat down while Gerard sat on the edge of the table, hands in pockets. “I won’t waste your time with idle banter, Mr. Preston. It was my contact’s wish to have you brought in, but I and the others here have very grave doubts about the whole thing.”
Preston nodded in cool acknowledgement.
“However, my contact seems to believe you can help us, and I trust his judgment. We’re at your disposal.”
“The timetable is the same, I take it?”
“Everything was in the proposed operational plan that you asked us to submit to you, but I’ll summarize here. In two days, Tereus will be celebrating its tercentenary— a rather mammoth 300th birthday celebration. The whole city is preparing for it. There will be a grand ball at the palace. Claudius is not expected to attend. He’s a paranoid hypochondriac who has avoided public appearances since the assassination attempt a year ago. He keeps himself to his private chambers, which is always guarded heavily. The same goes for the entrances to the royal residential wing where the royal chambers are located. Your initial entry into the palace has been arranged by my contact. Just before the ball, you will enter disguised as a worker under an assumed name through a little known entrance for servants and tradesmen. There will be a light assignment of guards but you will have the proper papers and identification, and there will be many other workers to blend in with. After you get in, it’s all up to you.”
“And the equipment I asked for?”
Gerard scratched his head. “There were some – ah – unusual items on your list, but we managed to get everything together down to your exact specifications, as you required. The equipment you’ll need for the ball will be in a closet in the servants’ quarters. The others will be waiting for you inside a closet in a guest chamber in the royal residential wing --- assuming you’ll get through the guards, of course.” He picked up a bundle of papers from the table and handed it to Preston. “And here’s everything you wanted – maps of the palace and surrounding grounds, security strength, schedules, guest lists, personnel lists, and whatever else we could get our hands on.”
Preston leafed quickly through the papers. One of them caught his attention and he scanned it with interest.
Gerard looked over his shoulder. “Ah yes, Princess Amabel’s dance list. You did ask us to get everything we could that pertained to the ball. Our contact was very thorough.”
“Is the gossip about her true?”
“You’re referring to her role as a royal courtesan, I assume. Oh yes, she’s part of the reason why Claudius has been so successful in attracting powerful allies in the past few years. Apparently, she can turn men into spineless idiots. She’s been hailed as one of the most beautiful women in the galaxy. And she’s very picky about the men she entertains, which only adds to her desirability. She’ll only be dancing and associating with those men on the dance list.” Gerard paused and rubbed his hands together. “So, how do you propose to gain entry into the royal wing without raising the alarm and alerting the guards outside Claudius’s chambers? Not to mention how you’ll get past Claudius’s guards themselves?”
“That’s my part of the agreement.” Preston said easily. “I’ll have to do it to collect my fee, won’t I?”
The rebel leader looked him steadily in the eye. “Look, Preston, as good as your reputation is, I still don’t see how this is all going to do us any good. Frankly, I think this is a suicidal mission. And if it fails, all it will accomplish is raise suspicions of my contact in the palace and endanger his position. But he’s willing to risk it. I have no choice but to respect his wishes and go along.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then Preston rubbed his chin. “Do you have a place here where I can change and shave?”
Gerard and the others looked at each other, then Gerard shrugged and stood up. “Yes, we’ve prepared a room for you. I’ll show you the way.”
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 8, 2005 23:45:44 GMT -5
CHAPTER 1
Princess Amabel Darnay leaned against the railing of the Romanoff, staring down at the teeming avenues hundreds of feet below her. Up in these vertiginous heights, she had always felt even more alone than usual, her thoughts as dark and murky as the emptiness that gnawed inside her.
At that moment, she wondered for the thousandth time, How would it feel to fly through the air as she dropped to her death on the streets below?
Then scorn for herself would flood her afterwards, for she knew she would never have enough courage to find out. She was afraid of death. She was even more afraid of the blackness beyond than she was of her stepfather, Claudius, the High King of Tereus.
In a few minutes, the enormous imperial airship would float down through the wispy clouds to dock at the palace terminal, and from there she would display herself from the ramparts to wave a few times at the thousands that crowded in the streets below. Then the various nobility, government and military officials, and privileged guests who had been invited to the grand ball that evening would begin their entrance into the heavily guarded palace gate, like a veritable parade.
Amabel had been coached so many times by her small army of courtiers, handmaids, and advisers on what to expect that she could play the scene in her mind without thinking – and indeed, such was her royal training that she could perform her movements and gliding walks automatically, a smile pasted on her face, down to the choreographed second. She was, after all, a consummate actress – at twenty-two, she had fooled everyone -- everyone except for Claudius -- into thinking that her smile was a genuinely happy one.
It all played out just as tediously as Amabel expected. She descended from the ship by way of the gangplank and made her way along the ramparts that overlooked the city of Navarre, capital of Tereus, attended by her court. She waved dutifully, and at sight of their princess, an appreciative roar went up from the throng.
From the sheltered heights of the ramparts, she could not be expected to hear the undercurrent of discontent among the crowds, which was manifested in the assorted screams of invective hurled at her but drowned out by the louder paean of blind worship. She could not hear them, but she had always sensed something vaguely in her mind, overshadowed by the darkness in her own heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flowers and ribbons of every imaginable color festooned the immense ballroom. At one end, a full stage had been set up with an orchestra and entertainers continuously performing throughout the night. There were small plays, acrobatic feats, magical displays, comedic dances, and graceful ballets— drawing appreciative audiences as the night wore on.
The little girl in Amabel had always enjoyed these entertainments, especially the music and the theatrical productions. For just a few minutes, the plays had the power to transport her from herself.
And she used to love to dance— she was in her natural element in a waltz, a tango, a country ensemble, or whatever it was. Movement came to her as gracefully and unconsciously as flight to a swan. But even dancing had palled.
For the past two years, she had been given detailed schedules of who she would dance with and when, mostly with important dignitaries that Claudius particularly wished for her to associate with that evening. She entertained Claudius’s political targets, occasionally bestowing a night in her bed to those who had particularly earned his good will. She was the coveted prize, the symbol of having attained the upper reaches.
It had started when she was sixteen, and her mother had been confined to bed with a rare sickness that required constant medical care. Claudius had threatened to withhold medical treatment for her mother if Amabel did not do as he had wished. He could have her mother declared to be dying, and he had claimed that the law allowed him, the king, to decide medical matters concerning the dying queen. And so, young and naive, still a child really, she had believed him and had done his will out of fear.
As the next few years wore on, she had begun to suspect that the death of her father, Charles, the 24th King of Tereus, had not been from natural causes as everyone would have her believe. The merest whispers were ruthlessly suppressed, which opened her eyes to the fact that every aspect of her personal life was controlled and managed to the smallest detail, down to what she was supposed to know.
Alone and unguided, she felt the life inside her being slowly strangled. Always surrounded by people who were charged with looking after her, she nonetheless felt helpless and abandoned. She had come to think of herself as almost useless.
Perhaps that was why, in her helplessness, she came to enjoy the attention of powerful men. And because she seemed to have so little control over other aspects of her life, she particularly enjoyed her power over them. She enjoyed being lavished with jewels and adulation and being worshipped by lovestruck fools, for she knew they would never really have her. Yes, she might favor one so chosen for a night – but it was only an illusion she spitefully perpetrated, just as Claudius’s benevolence was an illusion disguising his ambition and cruelty.
Then her mother died a year ago from mysterious causes, and the hatred for Claudius she had long repressed seethed under a smiling facade. She was convinced that he had caused her death, even if indirectly.
And because she lacked the courage to do anything about it, she came to despise herself. The very sight of Claudius, knowing what he, in his sick, twisted ambition, had done to her mother and what he was now doing to her, made her physically ill. She did not know how long she could go on.
She had to end it somehow.
That night, the wine flowed freely, and she danced one dance after another, flirting outrageously as the ball whirled dizzily through the night.
~~~~~~~~
There was one man who seemed different somehow.
The name on her dance list was Sir Dermot O’Malley, and he was apparently commander of some foreign military unit. But wine had slowed her understanding so she could not quite ascertain all the facts above the music and the noise in the ballroom.
He was dark-haired, gray-eyed, tall and powerfully built, and he moved with a curious minimalist grace that intrigued her. There was no wasted motion, no superfluous gestures. His uniform was unfamiliar, all black, austere yet elegant, the only touch of color the narrow gold band that crossed his broad chest up over one shoulder and down across his back, securing his sword scabbard at his waist.
They danced a waltz, and while she had become slightly befuddled by this time like everyone else, he rather unusually retained his full faculties. He led her skillfully around the ballroom, dodging drunken couples with agility.
“So, Sir O’Malley,” she said, smiling radiantly, part of her sober mind enjoying the fact that she was finally dancing with a man who knew how to lead in a waltz, “Will you be staying long in Navarre?”
“That depends, your highness.”
“On what, if I may ask?” she said archly, half expecting him to say “On you” with the cynicism of a woman who had been propositioned many times.
“On the rebellion,” he said, as he effortlessly swept her out of the path of a couple crashing through the crowd, whooping loudly.
Despite her inebriation, Amabel was startled. “Rebellion? What rebellion?”
He smiled down at her. Perhaps it was the smile, but intoxicated as she was, the woman in her had to admit that he was very handsome indeed -- but in a hard, dangerous sort of way, and she instinctively knew that here was a man not to be played with.
But she had always played with fire. So she did now, bringing her body closer to his. Anyway, it might be amusing to lead him along, this man who seemed to be in complete control of himself.
“The rebellion that your father seems to expect will be starting any time now.” He noted her movements and realized that she was setting her very feminine sights on him.
“He’s not my father.”
“Forgive me, your highness.” The fleeting expression of fierce hatred he saw in the delicate, perfectly formed features surprised him, but he did not show it. “King Claudius believes an uprising is likely to erupt any day, which would explain the heavy security.”
“How fascinating.” Her hand slowly slid up his arm, on to his shoulder, and to the back of his neck. She felt the muscles under her fingers tauten in response, and she smiled up at him. “A rebellion? Against his just, noble rule? That’s highly unlikely. But I tire of politics. What did you say your first name was?”
“Dermot.”
She pressed her body against his, and leaned her head back to whisper near his mouth. “Well, Sir Dermot O’Malley, I like you.” She did like the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers – strong, unyielding, very unlike the soft flabbiness of the nobility. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have him in her bed.
“The feeling is mutual,” he said softly, his arm tightening around her waist and pulling her against him.
She felt his desire and knew a moment’s triumph, followed by a flood of contempt --- both for herself and for him. Keeping her smile glued on, she whispered, “Tonight, after the ball, come to my chambers. My guards will let you in.”
“I shall count the seconds until then,” he murmured.
Then you’ll count forever, she thought maliciously. Because you won’t find me there.
The dance ended, and Sir Dermot O’Malley reluctantly released her, bowing as she swept away to her next dance. Everyone who was still half sober in the ballroom knew at once that Princess Amabel had brought down her prey.
Later, he sat at one of the dignitary tables at one side of the ballroom, and allowed himself a drink of wine. It was time to celebrate a small victory--- his gamble had paid off, after all.
On a chair next to him, his rotund shape barely fitting in the well-padded dining chair, the real Dermot O’Malley sat slumped, head thrown back and loud snores emitting from his sagging mouth. A glass of unfinished drink was in front of him.
Preston toasted him and smiled.
~~~~~~~~
Amabel sat staring at her reflection in her dressing table mirror, eyes glazed, as one of her handmaidens brushed her long, thick red-gold hair, and one of her advisors recounted the success of that evening. His Majesty was quite pleased.
“How is he?” she murmured automatically. “Has he recuperated from his ague?”
“Yes, I believe he has, your highness.”
“And where is he now?”
“Resting in his chambers, your highness.”
Amabel nodded and took a drink of the strong tea from the flagon on her dressing table. She placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and didn’t have to feign a headache. It was there, throbbing from too much drink.
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” she announced. Her handmaidens got up, curtsied and left the room. She detained her adviser. “Desdemona, tell the guards to let Sir Dermot O’Malley through tonight, should he come.”
“The tall, very good-looking man with a military bearing, your highness?” Desdemona queried.
“That’s him,” Amabel said, smiling at her adviser.
Desdemona blushed, then curtsied and said discreetly, “As you wish, your highness.”
Once alone in her chambers, with only the light of two candles on her bedside tables as illumination, Amabel sat agonizing for almost an hour. She almost gave in to her trepidation – it would be so much easier just to stay in her bedroom and wait for Sir Dermot O’Malley.
Then she came to a decision. If she put it off any longer, she would never do it at all. She hurried to her bed and lifted the mattress. Underneath was something long and thin wrapped in cloth. She put this on the bed and sat down, staring at her hands as they shook in her lap.
“It has to be done,” she whispered to herself. She picked up the object, pulled out a cloak and fur coat from her wardrobe, folded the fur coat on top of everything, and walked slowly out of her chambers.
The guards came to attention. “I’m going to take a present to his majesty,” she announced.
The High King’s chambers were on the topmost floor of the Eastern Tower in the royal residential wing in, and she had to climb many stairs and go down many hallways before she came to the floor itself. Unusually, there were no guards at the top of the stairs. A heavy cadre of officers normally waited on the king. Silently, Amabel glided along the richly tiled floor.
Her steps slowed to a complete halt. She stared in shocked disbelief at the bodies of dead guards that lay in the hall leading to the king’s outer chambers. She stood for a long time, until it dawned on her dazed mind that someone had already been to the king before her. Compelled by something she couldn’t explain to herself, she started walking, then running, her progress hampered by the obstacle course of guards that lay in her way. There was no blood, the smell of burnt flesh rising to choke her.
The scene in the outer chambers was no different. She picked her way through the massacre, discarding the fur coat and cloak, fumbling with the long thin object until it was uncovered. The jeweled dagger glittered in her hand as she pushed open the doors to the inner chamber.
It was silent as the grave. Slowly, she dragged her feet towards the gigantic bed where a still form lay. Her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in her ears. She climbed on the bed and knelt beside the still figure.
She stared dazedly down at Claudius. There was a blackened little hole in the middle of his forehead, and his eyes stared in deathly terror. A deadly laser gun lay just a few inches from his upturned hand.
He’s dead, she thought dumbly. The man who had given away her innocence. The man who had killed her parents.
Hatred blazed in her eyes, and she lifted her dagger above her head, preparing to strike at his throat.
Her arm came down, and a strong hand grasped her wrist before the knife could make contact with Claudius’s neck.
“He’s already dead, you little idiot,” hissed a deep voice in her ear. He circled her waist with his arm and dragged her bodily off the bed. With an expert twist, he managed to loosen her death grip on the dagger, which he caught as it fell from her hand.
Amabel stared up at him, large violet eyes dilated with shock. She whispered, “Sir O’Malley?”
“Any other sane person would have fled by now,” he said grimly. “What do you think the guards will do to you if they come and find you like this?”
“I was going to kill him,” she said dazedly.
“I gathered that.” He squatted down and stuffed the dagger into some sort of large black rucksack. He was all in black, apparently a utilitarian battle uniform—from the black hooded mask that he had taken off and now hung down his back, to the black weapons belt that circled his waist, to the heavy black boots. “Look, princess, there’s no time to waste. You need to go back to your chambers, now.” He paused and looked up at her. “Are you listening to me?”
She stared at him. “You – you killed him,” she said slowly.
He sighed and straightened to his feet. “I’d really like to stay and chat, but there’s an army of well-armed guards who will be coming up those stairs any moment. I’d like to be away before then, if you don’t mind.”
“You killed all those guards – by yourself?” she said, incredulously. Some color was returning to her white face.
He slung his rucksack over his back, and with a decisive metallic click a gun appeared out of nowhere in his hand. With the other he grabbed Amabel’s arm.
“Time to go.”
He dragged her forcefully out of the inner and outer chambers, down interminable stairs and halls, and onto her own floor, staying in the shadows and avoiding hallways occupied by guards. She was too dazed to protest.
“Who are you?” she gasped, panting for breath, as he peered around the corner of the hallway. “You’re not Sir Dermot O’Malley.”
“At this moment, O’Malley is probably in bed experiencing a monster headache,” he murmured. He paused. “My name is Gideon Maximus.”
The guards outside her chambers were nowhere to be seen. He strode around the corner, pulling her behind him towards her chambers.
“The guards— where are they?”
“Probably looking for you.” He drew her into her bedchamber, bolted and locked the door, and looked around swiftly. He strode to the door leading out to a balcony, opened it, stepped outside and peered over the balustrade.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
Amabel sat on the bed, catching her breath as she clung to the bedpost.
He came back into the room and looked at her. Her face had gone pale again. He said abruptly, “Are you all right?”
“I—I told the guards I was going to visit the king,” she said dully. “They’ll think I killed him.”
“I doubt it,” he said dryly. “At the most, they’ll suspect you as an accessory to his murder. However, we can avoid that.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to stay here. I was going to run away after I killed him, you know.”
“And where would you run to?”
“Anywhere, away from – here.” She stopped and stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Running away now is out of the question.” He had unfurled a length of rope from his rucksack, and before she realized what he was doing, he had grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Let me go!”
“Sorry, princess,” he murmured as he bound her wrists tightly. “This has to be done.” She started struggling wildly, but he grabbed her feet as well and bound them just as tightly. He picked her up as if she were a doll, dropped her in the middle of the bed among her pillows, knelt astride her squirming body, and bent down towards her.
“You wouldn’t dare!” she spat furiously. He took hold of one of the thin straps of her gown, tugged savagely, and tore it from her shoulder, leaving the curve of her breast exposed. “Don’t – you—dare!”
He took her face in his hand, leaned over her, and kissed her hard.
It was a bruising kiss, but not cruel. Amabel felt her body betray her with its melting response, her own lips parting and kissing him back with a fervor that surprised them both. As the kiss threatened to go further, he tore his lips away and pushed himself up on his hands.
He stared down at her. Her violet eyes were enormous as they stared wonderingly up at him, her mouth swollen from the kiss.
He got off the bed and straightened to his feet, once again in complete control of himself.
“No one who finds you like this will doubt that you were one of my victims, thus deflecting suspicion away from you.”
She stared up at him in dazed confusion. “You’re not – you’re not going to—“
“Much as I would like to, I’m afraid I haven’t the time,” he murmured. “Got to run.”
“But – but you can’t leave me here!” she gasped, horrified as it suddenly dawned on her that she would be alone again. “You can’t! Please, take me with you!”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” He picked up the hem of her gown, ripped off a strip of fabric, re-arranged the skirt until a good portion of her slender legs was exposed, and tied the strip around her mouth, effectively silencing her. “Goodbye, princess. I doubt we’ll meet again.”
Swiftly, he went to the window, tightened the straps of his rucksack on his back, stepped out onto the balcony, leapt onto the balustrade, and jumped out into the black night.
Amabel’s scream stuck in her throat and she fainted dead away.
[/font]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 8, 2005 23:49:44 GMT -5
CHAPTER 2
The rebellion erupted as just as Maximus had foreseen. There were many executions daily as dozens of rebels were captured and brought to makeshift justice. And yet, instead of quelling the rebellion, the executions only seemed to fuel the fires of revolution.
Amabel’s horrified handmaidens had found her unconscious after the full alarm had been raised. By then, it was already too late.
A search of the battlements below Amabel’s window had turned up nothing – no Maximus, no body, not even a trace of blood.
A thorough investigation revealed very little. Sir Dermot O’Malley claimed he knew nothing until he woke up just as the ball ended, after which he had gone home. Apparently, he had been drugged by something in one of his drinks.
Except for his physical description, nothing else was known about the assassin-- who he was, where he was from, and how he had killed 57 of the elite, highly trained royal guards alone. He had come to Tereus as invisibly as he had disappeared.
The only thing that anyone knew for certain was that the assassin had come to Tereus for one purpose and one purpose only – to murder the king.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It became common knowledge throughout the palace that Princess Amabel was distraught and grief-stricken, allowing no one to see her while she locked herself in her chambers, even refusing a medical examination from the royal physician. Only her handmaidens were allowed to attend to her.
No one, that is, except Lord Julius Valentinian, the king’s Supreme Chancellor. He was perhaps the second most powerful man in Tereus after the king himself—and with the king murdered, he was left to hold the reins of an empire that threatened to crumble.
His response to the unrest had been severe and unrelenting – clamping down the rebellion at all costs, ramping the martial law that King Claudius had instigated during his reign. No one, not even Amabel, could refuse his presence.
He came to visit Amabel almost daily. Amabel so loathed his visits that she had taken to her bed and feigned fatigue to shorten his stay.
Valentinian was by no means a wooden man. He had always desired Amabel-- but she had already made it clear to him that she despised him.
But now, the absolute power that had fallen to him was like a drug—there was nothing that was beyond his reach. And this woman, the remaining heir of the Darnay dynasty, was his means to even greater power.
His visit was different today. For almost a week, he had entered her bedchamber courteously, making noises of sympathy for her condition. Today, he strode inside her bedchamber as if he owned it. After a brief courtly bow, he paced slowly in front of the windows.
Valentinian was tall and powerful, handsome by the nobility’s standards. A favorite at court, many considered him strong and ruthless enough to take over where Claudius had failed. Because he was relatively young at thirty-four, his rise to the top of the political ladder had been considered nothing short of phenomenal.
Amabel watched him blankly. Secretly, she had always thought him to be rather vain and arrogant, with a touch of cruelty.
She was sitting up in bed, propped against her many pillows. Thick, red-gold waves fell carelessly around her slender shoulders, her skin pale from lack of sun. Her delicate features were strained and drawn, and her enormous violet eyes seemed to be too big for her face.
Valentinian thought that no woman had a right to be so utterly beautiful.
“We’ve discovered something about our assassin today,” he said conversationally, stopping to stand in front of the very window where Maximus had jumped off. He clasped his hands behind him and gazed at her with calculating black eyes.
Amabel’s eyes widened. News of the assassin should of course be of interest to her, but the truth was, she was inwardly consumed with curiosity. She had been unable to stop thinking about him since he had jumped out her window.
“Did you?”
“Apparently, our historians discovered something while searching the archives back on Old Earth. There’s only one sort of person who can go into a heavily guarded fortress such as ours, decimate 57 armed guards, accomplish his objective, and escape without a trace. They found an almost extinct, secret order of warriors called the Tetragrammaton. These warriors, called Grammaton clerics, were law enforcement back when Libria was still ruled by ‘Father,’ six hundred years ago. They were trained from childhood in every form of killing and art of war, and specifically excelled in the martial arts discipline known as the Gun Kata. The Gun Kata seems to enable anyone who had mastered it to kill a roomful of enemy targets without getting a scratch himself.”
Amabel’s eyes widened even more. “Did you say this order is almost extinct?”
“It should have been, once the unrest in Libria after the revolution that ended ‘Father’s’ rule was replaced by peace and order. After that, it was thought that there was no longer any need for the Grammaton, and many who remembered their brutality fought to abolish the order. But there were some who wanted to preserve it, and trained clerics secretly in the mountains. Apparently, they have been used to augment armies in wars that broke out on Earth during the last six centuries – and very effectively, I understand.”
“And you think this assassin is one of them?”
“In our recent history, no one on Tereus has ever heard of such cold-blooded proficiency in death such as this assassin demonstrated.” Valentinian’ eyes narrowed. “I am convinced that only a cleric could have done what he did.”
“It appears they’re no longer as secret as they once were,” Amabel murmured.
Valentinian nodded. “It appears their success may have contributed to that. Apparently, their services are still highly sought in the galaxy. But since there are thought to be very few of them, only the wealthiest could afford them. Moreover, they are very difficult, almost impossible, to locate. Clerics are supposedly trained to rely on stealth and invisibility.”
“He was far from invisible at the ball,” she pointed out.
“Ah, but would you or anyone else have suspected that he was capable of doing what he did? And we are still hard-pressed to determine how he could have entered the palace, joined the ball, and disappeared into thin air.”
“It was a rather large crowd,” Amabel said thoughtfully. “Anyone could have joined it unseen.”
“Yes, but security was high, in my opinion almost impenetrable.” He looked at her speculatively. “I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that he had help from the inside. He was somehow brought in by someone who knew the palace, and once inside, he was able to mingle unsuspected during the ball.”
Amabel’s heart had started pounding, as if she had been the guilty one. “How can you be so sure?”
“I can’t be completely certain – not yet,” he murmured. “Dissatisfaction in the empire has been growing of late, no doubt due to his majesty’s recent policies, and it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that the dissatisfaction had reached the highest levels of the imperial government. I would not hesitate to say that there are those in the Ancillary Council who are quite capable of hiring a mercenary to assassinate our king.”
“Do you have any idea who it is?”
Valentinian’s voice was coldly implacable. “No, but it will be a matter of time before we discover who the traitor is.” Amabel nodded slowly, trying to hide her growing alarm.
Although she had not gone through with her mad plan to kill Claudius, why in the world did she feel as guilty as if she had? At any rate, she had been responsible for allowing the assassin into the residential wing, however innocently. Because of this, she couldn’t help feeling that Valentinian watched her constantly.
She must be on her guard around him at all times.
“I trust you will do everything in your power to find this murderer, Lord Valentinian,” she said quietly.
He bowed. “Be assured, your highness. I will.”
It was hard, but she managed to smile at him. “When you do, I and the rest of Tereus will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
He walked up to her bed and looked down at her. “I was hoping that you would be rested enough this evening to come to a private dinner I had planned in the imperial dining room. There is something that I would like to discuss with you.”
Amabel hesitated slightly. Now would not be the time to refuse him, and anyway, she very badly wanted to get out of her bedchambers. Perhaps it was time to discard the languishing female act.
“I would be happy to,” she replied graciously.
He smiled. “Very good. I shall see you tonight, then.”
After he had left, she took a deep breath and threw the bedcovers to one side. She rang the bell for her handmaidens, who appeared almost instantaneously.
“I wish to bathe and dress for tonight,” she ordered.
~~~~~~~~
The imperial dining room was large and lavish, certainly too large for two people dining alone—or almost alone. The usual attendance of armed guards, her handmaidens and Valentinian’s own retinue of valets stood discreetly along the shadows of the great curtained walls, while a stream of stewards came to serve the courses and take the previous ones away.
They would be able to talk with complete privacy.
Amabel barely tasted her food. She didn’t trust Valentinian at all. If he somehow discovered that she had intended to kill the king herself, her life would be forfeit.
There were the required pleasantries over the first few courses, with inane, sparkling banter that Amabel particularly excelled in. He watched her with that lingering smile, a smile that became immensely disturbing as the evening wore on.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair and swirled the wine in his glass. “I may have good news, your highness,” he drawled.
She put down the fork she had been toying with. “And what may that be, Lord Valentinian?”
“Please, can you not bring yourself to call me ‘Julius’ in private? We’ve known each other for a long time.”
She smiled. “Very well -- Julius. Are you going to tell me the good news, or will you be content to leave me hanging?”
“It’s very possible that we’ve discovered the whereabouts of the assassin – or at least his trail.” He leaned forward with enthusiasm. “I hope very soon to capture him.”
Amabel she picked up her wineglass and toasted him. “That is good news indeed,” she said brightly.
“He will be duly tortured and executed without trial,” he went on, “for the heinous crimes of slaughtering our king in his sleep, and violating the empire’s most treasured jewel. For these crimes he will suffer and pay.”
Amabel took a gulp of her wine and let the warm liquid wash down her throat and steady her. Calm, she told herself. The man is a liar. Slaughtered in his sleep, was he? Amabel remembered the wide-open eyes full of horror and the laser gun on the bed. It was possible that Claudius, ever cringing behind his protective wall of guards with fear of assassination, had kept that gun by his side at all times. He was also known to be an incurable insomniac, and had probably been fully awake when the assassin had broken through the inner circle of guards.
If somehow the assassin was still alive after a fall of 300 feet to the battlements below, would he hang around the planet waiting to be caught after assassinating the king, killing 57 of his elite guards, and supposedly raping the princess? She very much doubted it. He would be long gone by now, back to the ether from whence he had come.
“But that’s not really why we’re here,” he said conversationally.
“No?” Her eyebrows rose.
“We’re here to discuss the future of the empire,” he said slowly, “which, by the way, is intimately connected with yours.”
“I see. And I suppose, by the very fact that you are discussing this with me, this future is somehow connected with yours as well?”
A flicker of appreciation appeared in his eyes. “You are far more intelligent than you’ve always allowed others to give you credit for. I’ve always known you were.”
“Sadly, intelligence isn’t a requirement for the position,” she said coolly.
“How true,” he drawled. “Which brings us to the heart of the matter. You must know that Tereus needs a king now more than ever. Imperial power was always manifested in the crown, and that is what is needed to hold our empire together against the destructive forces of this rebellion.”
“Ah yes, that ridiculous law that says the King of Tereus must have Darnay blood or must marry into it. And no, I don’t agree that Tereus needs a king. I think Tereus has had more than its share of kings-by-fiat, and I believe we should give democracy a chance.”
“You can’t possible know what you’re saying. Without a king, Tereus is nothing.”
“That’s your opinion, Lord Valentinian,” she retorted.
“Based on hundreds of years of history and reason,” he said harshly. “Think, Amabel. What would happen to your livelihood should the dynasty fall? Where would you be then? Don’t flatter yourself that you, the very symbol of the imperial nobility, would be spared the cataclysmic changes that would come with the onset of this evil called democracy. Your lands will be foreclosed, your jewels and clothes ransacked and confiscated. And your own person will no longer be inviolable. Is that what you want?”
“Be that as it may,” she said defiantly, “It is my choice to marry or not, and I choose not to. Especially not you, Valentinian, if that is what this is all about. You know perfectly well nothing will induce me to marry you.”
“That isn’t perfectly true,” he said coldly. “In the case of your refusal to marry, the Council can vote to choose your husband. Is that where you want to go? I have more than two thirds of the Council in my pocket, as you are probably well aware. It would go much easier with you if you simply accept the inevitable. You have, after all, allowed Claudius to dictate his wishes to you for years. It would have been his wish for you to marry me.”
Heat flooded Amabel’s cheeks, and her hands clenched in her lap until she could feel her nails dig into her skin. Yes, she wanted to scream at him, but it had gone on long enough. She was finished doing what the High King of Tereus had dictated.
“You are sadly mistaken if you think you can invoke Claudius’s name,” she said through clenched teeth. “He’s dead. And even you don’t know who he had in mind to be my husband. He intended to expand the kingdom by marrying me off to another dynasty somewhere.”
“Ah, but he didn’t, did he?” he said smoothly. “As you say, he’s dead, and what matters now are the powers that be—namely, myself. I have more power than Claudius ever wielded. And I intend to wield it in whatever way I choose.”
“You have no power over me,” she threw back at him.
His expression had changed, becoming uglier. “I beg you to remember your mother.”
Amabel jumped to her feet, veritable fireworks in her eyes. Her mother had been forced to marry Claudius through Council decree after King Gregory had died many years ago.
“I am not my mother! I will not be forced to marry, do you understand, you pretentious, egotistical ass? I will not!” She stormed off towards the dining hall doors.
“I think the Council might have something else to say about that,” he called after her. He sat back in his chair, smiling. “Pretentious and egotistical?” he mused. That went much better than I expected.”
~~~~~~~~
Everyone in the monastery had always known that Gideon Maximus would be just like his ancestor, the legendary John Preston.
Just like Preston, Maximus had easily excelled in all his classes, surpassing everyone else, mastering every possible weapon, fighting style and kata by the time he was seventeen.
Just like Preston, he had shot up through the ranks in a phenomenally short period of time, and by the time he was twenty-one he was the highest-ranking cleric in the Tetragrammaton.
And oddly enough, he was not only directly descended from John Preston, he looked just like John Preston. Many found the resemblance between him and the portrait in the Great Hall quite uncanny.
The monastery was in a remote fastness in the Andes Mountains on Old Earth, accessible only by air and by road during the summer. Very few knew of its existence.
At twenty-two, Maximus and his peers made their oaths and left the monastery, ready to take their place in the order of the galaxy.
Many went on to take honorable positions in law enforcement agencies on Earth and other planets; others went on to military careers. Others followed less obvious paths, and a very rare few turned to crime.
Those who did were excommunicated from the Tetragrammaton according to the principles established by John Preston and were duly dealt with by other clerics, either through capture or, if capture wasn’t possible, by termination. Preston had determined that the Grammaton would no longer be wielded for brutal oppression, and that due process for the civilian populace was a sacred tenet that would not be violated. Thereafter, his principles guided the Grammaton in everything they did.
The path of mercenary had not been one that Maximus would have chosen—rather, it chose him. His reputation as an officer in the Newfoundland Security Agency of the free planet of Newfoundland had grown to the extent that the leaders of governments sought him out specifically. It had started out as brief loans from the Newfoundland government to its allies, then longer, more extensive missions, then, deciding that he would do better to freelance, Maximus resigned from the NSA at twenty-five to become a free agent.
It was then that his true career began.
The Tetragrammaton had evolved over six centuries, adapting its training and techniques to ever-changing conditions in the galaxy. Stealth was emphasized, as well as the chameleon-like ability to blend in whatever situation a cleric found himself. Therefore, a cleric should be able to feel at home infiltrating an underground den of criminals, or mingling with high officials and aristocrats at a ball.
After Maximus resigned from the NSA, he went on to perfect these skills until it was impossible for anyone who met him to guess that he was one of the deadliest weapons in the galaxy.
Over time, he had found it necessary to disappear altogether, having collected many enemies from a dozen star systems. He lived under many pseudonyms and aliases, resided in several dozen addresses, known or unknown. Eventually, his real name was forgotten in the mists of his past.
In a nondescript, Spartan condominium in a large living complex on Hephaestion, he sat at his desk and watched a monitor as streams of information, pictures, data and occasional messages from a hundred worlds flashed across the screen.
He had learned to speed-read long ago—it was merely something that a cleric did to optimize his efficiency, and he had found that it was necessary in order to keep up with the staggering amount of news in the galaxy.
He sat with an elbow resting on the arm of the chair, chin resting on his palm as his eyes automatically followed the stream of data. At exactly ten-minute intervals, his watch would beep, and he would swing the chair around to face the windows that overlooked the small green park of the living complex and practice focusing exercises to rest his eyes.
It was then that thoughts that he held at bay during the day would come swimming up to his consciousness. He allowed himself to examine these thoughts objectively, just as he had been taught at the monastery — rather like an appraiser examining a gem for flaws.
He had given her his real name.
Not that it really mattered. It would be impossible to trace him by his real name. He had forsaken his true identity some time after permanently leaving Newfoundland, and he currently existed under eight false ones to match the identities that he used to perform his missions. And yet – he had given her his real name.
What did it signify? Was it an unconscious attempt to connect with a woman?
There had certainly been a physical connection. With an intensity that disturbed him, he remembered those moments when he had kissed her, remembered his own primal response to her femininity and how he had almost lost control.
And he felt it, even now.
Everyday grew the unpleasant thought that he had made a mistake. It was three weeks now since the Tereus mission, three weeks in which to develop the uneasy awareness of one who had left something valuable behind somewhere.
Perhaps he should have taken her with him, as she had begged. Although he knew it would have risked her life as well as his, he had calculated the physical odds and had concluded that he could have managed it. But he chose not to. He had swiftly weighed in other factors, had mentally followed the logical consequences of each of his options, and in the end had decided that she would be safer if he left her where she was.
But was she? He had not heard from his contacts in Tereus since the mission. Which was as it should be. The rebellion was under way, the mission was accomplished, and contact was severed as agreed upon. The only news he could gather were the daily reports out of Navarre, which were of course sanitized versions of actual events.
He could, however, read between the lines. Details of the assassination were unsurprisingly vague. The rebellion was growing, but so was the weight of the imperial arm. The government, now lead by Lord Julius Valentinian, was still in flux. Of the princess there was little to no news.
Although Preston had liberated Libria from oppression and had changed the Grammaton forever, there were some things that didn’t change. Even without the emotion-suppressing drug that had once been mandatory for the masses, a cleric was still required to suppress his own emotions in order to enable him to do what he was best at doing—killing.
Years of training and inculcating absolute self-control – physical, mental, emotional, sexual-- produced warriors who had once been appropriately termed ‘cold gods of death.’
So he told himself that he should let it go. He made decisions on the field all the time, and if he second-guessed himself every time, he would be of no use to anyone.
He swung his chair back around and continued his reading, deliberately blanking his mind of everything else.
[/font]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:03:09 GMT -5
CHAPTER 3
The explosion shattered the silence over the fields.
The shock wave rattled the windows of Henry Cook’s farmhouse. Bidding his frightened wife to stay in bed, Henry dressed quickly and made his way outside.
He gazed, open-mouthed, at where his south field met the ancient road. There, almost as swiftly as it had come, the firestorm that had licked up to the night sky was diminishing with each passing second.
He went back in, told his wife what he saw, and added that he would go the edge of the south field to investigate. Esther became nearly hysterical, but he managed to calm her, suggesting that she make use of the time by brewing them a pot of tea. This gave her something to do, and so he was able to leave her. Quickly, he saddled Gray, their horse, and made his way to the site of the firestorm.
The ancient road which ran through the valley was no longer empty. In the middle lay a scorched, smoking mass of metal.
By the light of the waxing moon, Henry also saw that the road was littered with smaller bits of twisted metal for hundreds of meters along each direction. The fire no longer had anything to feed on, and so had died before he had reached it.
Henry didn’t know what to do. His nearest neighbor was beyond his valley, five miles away. This road was rarely used, an overgrown cow lane almost completely overtaken in some parts by nature as to be nearly impassable. The road that connected him to the village and to his neighbors was about a mile away. He doubted that anyone could have seen the firestorm, and all that anyone would have heard would have been a distant boom, as of lightning hitting the ground.
He was about to turn towards home when he heard it. It was a soft groan. It was coming from somewhere to his right, from a clump of bushes. Slowly, cautiously, Henry approached the source of the sound.
He stopped and stared down at the still figure tangled in the vines of a gornberry bush.
It was a man, covered in blood.
~~~~~~~
Amabel accepted the fact that she was a prisoner in her own home. For her own safety, she was not allowed to go anywhere without armed guards, and definitely could not leave the palace without an entire unit of elite soldiers to accompany her. So, for now, she gave up any thought of going to her country estates in Villion, or even to visit acquaintances.
She took daily walks on the ramparts for fresh air and exercise under the watchful eyes of sentries, followed of course by her ever-present retinue. On this particular day, Lord Robert Dewinter, her mother’s cousin by marriage and a member of the Council, had joined her. He was a tall, gray-haired, scholarly man, with a noble brow and solemn eyes.
After greeting each other with an embrace, they walked together a little apart from her attendants to give them privacy.
“It was very kind of you to come when I asked, Uncle Robert,” Amabel said, smiling. “I get so few visitors nowadays. And it’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“And I you,” he said gravely. “Although I would have wished our circumstances to be a little different from what it is now.” He studied her keenly. “You’re thinner, and some of the roses have left your cheeks.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she said teasingly.
“Why not? I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare.” He paused. “I know why you called me. There could only be one reason.”
Amabel nodded, and her expression clouded. “Is the Council going to vote soon on – on my marriage?”
His expression was somber. “Yes. We’ve tried to hold Valentinian off as long as we can, but—it is the law. He invoked the Emergency Act to hurry it along. He is pushing for a new king, and the only way to have one by law is for you to marry, there being no male heirs.”
“And is it true that he has two-thirds of the Council in his pocket?”
“Unfortunately.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “The first phase is for him to be nominated by a council member. There may be other nominations, but we all know that would be useless with him commanding a majority. And then, once the nominations are accepted, they will be voted upon. And Valentinian will have brought down two birds with one stone.”
“What do you mean?”
“The remaining one third may or may not vote for him, and a clear vote for him would signal their loyalty. A clear vote against him – well, he’ll know who his enemies are, won’t he?”
Amabel stared at him. “You’ll vote against him.”
He smiled humorlessly. “That is so. Just as I voted against Claudius.” He shrugged. “It’s a thankless job, but someone has to do it.”
“There’s no other way?”
“Of course there is.” He cleared his throat. “It will involve you choosing your husband yourself and marrying him as soon as possible.”
“But I know no man who is worthy to be king,” she protested.
He nodded. “There’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Amabel stopped walking, and so did he. And so did her retinue to maintain their respectful distance.
“There must be another way,” she insisted.
Lord Dewinter looked around him. “Do you have any suggestions, your highness?”
Amabel bit her lower lip. “Valentinian believed that the assassin might have had help from inside the palace.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that theory. It makes sense, of course, and explains how he may have conveniently acquired his weapons, attire and equipment for that evening.”
“Well,” Amabel moved closer to him and dropped her voice to a whisper, “if there is such a person, isn’t it possible that he would know how to contact the assassin? And if this person knows how to contact him, couldn’t we ask him to contact the assassin again?”
Lord Dewinter stared at her in fascination. “To do what, your highness?”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Why, to assassinate Valentinian.”
Lord Dewinter nodded slowly. “A good plan, your highness. Except for one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“We don’t know who his contact in the palace was.”
Amabel’s shoulders sagged a little. “I don’t suppose you know?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
Amabel took a deep breath. “It was just a thought. But there is another alternative, one that doesn’t require me marrying anyone. And it might solve our problems forever.”
Lord Dewinter frowned. “Have I missed something? I thought I’d exhausted all alternatives. If you know of one, your highness, please tell me now.”
Amabel shook her head, smiling. “The plan is still in the developing stages. I promise to let you know when the time comes, Uncle Robert.”
His eyes narrowed. But she started chattering cheerfully about something else, and his suspicions were allayed for the time being.
~~~~~~~~
On the days that he was not on a mission, Maximus spent them at one of his many domiciles. On Hephaestion, he was Charles Sunningley, a quiet, unobtrusive businessman. He was away most of the time on his “business trips,” so it was rare to see him home. And when he was, he seldom went out. His neighbors could only guess what he did inside.
They would have been amazed to see that there was very little furniture inside his condo. The spacious living area had been converted into some kind of gymnasium, complete with nautilus machines, gymnastic equipment, extensive weights, and a long, empty floor area with a target practice prop at one end. The only furniture he had—indeed, the only furniture he ever needed—was a bed, a desk, a kitchen table, and a couple of chairs.
When he was not studying or reading, Maximus trained almost five hours a day. In addition to various intense cardiovascular and strength workouts, he performed endless gun, sword and hand-to-hand exercises on the floor with anywhere from one to 200 opponents.
These opponents looked and sounded so life-like that an observer wouldn’t know they were not real until one of Maximus’s katanas sliced through an opponent and he vanished like magic.
It was a parting gift to alumni from the Tetragrammaton. The most advanced learning computer game of its kind, it consisted of a highly specialized device that projected life-size, three-dimensional holographic images in a wide, 360-degree field of vision, with a motion sensor grid that captured the cleric’s movement and extrapolated it back to the program.
The program already had basic training and actual battles written in, but, like the cleric, it was designed to grow and evolve, allowing the cleric to program not only his opponents and their number, but the battles as well.
Moreover, it was specifically designed to have intelligent, cleric-like response with a range of more than eighty thousand movements, attacks, defenses, and stances from more than 81 fighting styles from across the galaxy in its repertoire—quite enough to keep the cleric busy--- while it remembered the cleric’s techniques and integrated them to counter his line of attack.
It also doubled as an excellent target practice for handgun, long-range rifle and knife-throwing training.
Needless to say, the game enabled the cleric to perfect his fighting techniques, hone his body, sharpen his reflexes, increase his speed, and develop even deadlier accuracy.
To the cleric, the game was not merely play. It was his livelihood.
So far, Maximus was up to 153 opponents in gun battles, 32 in sword battles, 25 in hand-to-hand and 19 in knife-to-knife. He was already working on breaking through the 33 level in the Samurai sword category when the familiar rapid beeping emitted from his galaxy-range PCC handset.
“Pause,” he ordered the computer in mid-stance.
The holographic figures froze, and Maximus assumed the ready posture before walking through the faintly shimmering figures to the sword rack where he replaced the two katanas. Then he walked towards the kitchen table where the PCC lay. On his way there he grabbed a towel from the floor and wiped off the sweat that dripped down his face and bare, well-muscled chest.
He picked up the small watch-like device, strapped it onto his wrist, pressed his thumb on the fingerprint reader, and watched as the 3D holo popped up. A rotating galaxy model meant that it was a text message only, with no audio or video.
“Preston.” His unique voice imprint unlocked the download code, and in another second the message was displayed on the holographic screen. He read it instantly.
“Dictating.” The PCC went into dictation mode. “You know I don’t go back unless there’s unfinished business. Send reply.” After a second, his message was transmitted.
New text appeared, and his expression changed subtly. He transmitted his reply, dropped the towel and jogged towards his bedroom.
[/font]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:12:30 GMT -5
CHAPTER 4
The first thing he was aware of was the smell. It was rather pleasant, really, the strong odor of burning meat. It made him realize how painfully empty his stomach was.
He moved slightly, and the pang of hunger was suddenly overcome by a shooting pain in the vicinity of his chest, causing a sharp intake of breath. He lay still, breathing shallowly until the pain subsided to a dull ache. Slowly, with an effort, he raised a hand and fingered the strips of cloth that bound his chest tightly.
Then his curious fingers probed the material of the mattress he was lying on. It was coarse and rough, some sort of woven fabric over lumps that he guessed was dried hay.
He opened his eyes slowly. The room he was in was partly darkened by heavy coarse curtains over a window, yet there was enough light filtering through the cracks to hurt his eyes.
He waited until his eyes had become used to the light. Then he turned his head inch by agonizing inch, and saw that it was a small room, furnished with only the rough bed, a small, crude bedside table, and an equally crude wooden chair. Despite the coarseness, the floorboards were swept clean, and the room had an air of being well-kept.
He lay motionless and silent for a long time, staring sightlessly at the warped beams of the low ceiling. He had discovered that his head was similarly bound in cloth, and there was a pervasive throb that inhabited the right side of his head.
It was difficult to think clearly. Merely processing what his senses were telling him of his immediate surroundings had been an effort. So he lay, not thinking of anything in particular.
Time passed, he didn’t know how long. The realization came to him sluggishly.
He couldn’t think at all, for the simple reason that his mind was completely blank.
~~~~~~~~
The old farmer and his wife tended to him gently, while he received their care without complaint. He was fed and given drink, sometimes of bitter tasting concoctions that made him choke. They helped him with his bodily functions with the use of a rudimentary chamber pot. They changed his bloody bandages daily, examining and cleaning his wounds using soothing salves made from herbs, and they bathed him with a sponge and a bowl of water. They talked very little, the farmer and his wife and their patient.
It was a few weeks later, but eventually, his wounds healed enough for him to sit up and take care of eliminating his waste by himself. The binding was gone from his chest and head, although his left leg was still in the splint that the farmer had devised. The many cuts, bruises and scratches his body had suffered were slowly fading.
Then he was able to stand up and limp along, his movements slow and stiff. His leg had been broken in two places, so the farmer told him, but they looked to be healing nicely. For the first time, he joined the farmer and his wife for a meal at their table.
They ate the meal in their usual silence.
The farmer watched as their guest ate with little appetite. He was tall, too tall for their low-ceilinged house, but weeks of disuse and lack of activity had atrophied his muscles, leaving his frame rather thin and frail. He was also very pale from lack of sun, his skin tinged with the sickly gray of an invalid.
It was the eyes that bothered Henry. They were pale gray, almost silver, and the blankness in them caused him some concern. Although the man seemed to have full control of his faculties, there was a curious docility about him that made Henry wonder if perhaps he had suffered brain damage.
While Esther bustled about in the kitchen, Henry looked at the other man. He said, gently, “Would you like to talk about it?”
The man looked back at him, puzzled. “Talk about what?”
“About how you came here. About the crash.”
The man stared down at his plate and pushed the remaining lumps of food in aimless circles with his fork. At length, he looked up.
“I can’t.”
“I understand,” Henry nodded. “You’re not ready yet.”
“No, you don’t understand.” The man sighed. “I can’t talk about it, because I don’t remember anything.”
Henry suddenly comprehended. “You don’t remember anything at all?”
“No. Nothing. I don’t know who I am, where I came from, I don’t even remember the crash. The first thing I remember is waking up on the bed.”
Henry shook his head, stunned. “Your head wound has affected your memory.”
The man nodded.
Henry frowned. “But it wasn’t a deep wound, barely grazing the skull bone. You must have been hit even harder than it looked.”
“If you say so.”
Henry hesitated. “There’s a doctor in the village. If you would like to see him, perhaps I’ll take you there next week when I go in to market.”
The man nodded. “Yes, I’ll see him.”
~~~~~~~~
Valentinian’s persistence was implacable. As it became clear that Princess Amabel would continue to refuse to choose a husband, a date was set for the Council to meet and nominate a future king. The rebellion showed no signs of abating, and in fact several officials had been murdered and offices ransacked in Navarre’s civic district despite the high security at all government facilities.
Amabel waited for something to happen. Every day she would eagerly listen to the latest news from her adviser, Desdemona, but every day she was deeply disappointed.
She was not exactly sure what she was waiting for. The death of the king had brought hope to millions on Tereus —the masses suffering from poverty while the wealthy got richer, the families of people who had been unjustly imprisoned and executed without due process-- which Claudius had suspended by fiat along with the suspension of personal freedoms because of baseless fears bordering on madness. The rebellion became stronger everyday, and perhaps it was a matter of time before the government fell or capitulated.
Although Amabel was glad for the rebellion and the people of Tereus, there seemed no hope for herself. Valentinian was right—she was the symbol of imperial decadence, of royal extravagance and dissipation. If she were to be swept away in the fires of the revolution, perhaps it was as it should be. Her entire life had been meaningless. She had no real purpose – in fact, she was a means to perpetuate the dynasty.
Her death would end the line forever.
~~~~~~~~~
The day of the Council vote came, and members started trickling into the Council Chamber in the palace late in the morning. It was a secret meeting, so they had been required to arrive singly or in pairs at staggered time intervals. Predictably, once they arrived, they gravitated into small, whispering little groups as they waited.
Lord Robert Dewinter stood with a few of his close friends. There was a nervous tension among them. He tried not to look at his watch, but as the time loomed, he became more apprehensive than ever.
He kept looking up into the raised balcony where the Chancellor was expected to observe the proceedings. He was not required to attend, but Dewinter knew that he would. So far, he had not appeared.
The minutes dragged. Only a few of the sixty Council members still had not arrived, and the meeting could not be started without them.
They they all heard the explosions.
~~~~~~~~
Valentinian took one final look in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. He had always been concerned with his appearance beyond fastidiousness, beyond vanity. It was an obsession. Every single detail down to the last button had to be just so, or else his valets suffered for it.
Lately he had taken to wearing the colors of the Darnay dynasty—deep blue and gold, in rich fabrics that more befitted a king. In his mind he was already King of Tereus, Sovereign of Navarre.
He waved his two valets away and they left his chambers. Very soon, he told himself, he would be occupying the royal chambers. For now he had to be satisfied with one of the tolerably sumptuous staterooms reserved for visiting heads of state.
He was going to attend the Council meeting that morning. For now, he had one other matter to attend to. With one last flick of his sleeve, he walked out of his bedchamber into the outer chamber.
Sitting relaxed in one of the ornate chairs was a man dressed entirely in black.
Valentinian sat down in a chair facing him. “I’m glad you could come back, Mr. Preston.”
“I was compelled to return after all.”
“First, let me say that you have exceeded my expectations. Your reputation is well-deserved.”
Preston inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“But, as I’m sure was mentioned to you, I find that I still have need of your services.”
“Unresolved issues, I understand?”
“Yes. The rebels. I want you to find the rest of them and kill them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes— particularly Gerard. Without him, I suspect the rebellion would lose much of its steam.”
“There may be a problem.”
Claudius was taken aback. “If it’s money, let me assure you that you’ll be paid a very handsome fee --- even more than I have already paid you.”
“Money isn’t the problem--- it’s a conflict of interest.” Preston paused. “You see, Gerard has already retained my services.”
Valentinian’s stiffened for a moment, then hand crept towards the gun in his belt holster. Preston noted the movement but ignored it.
“You used the rebels to arrange Claudius’s assassination, representing yourself as a supporter of the rebellion. You made him believe that you shared his vision for Tereus, making lofty promises to gut the government inside out and rid it of corruption. So Gerard took you into his confidence. Always a bit of the idealist fool, wasn’t he, Valentinian?”
Valentinian said nothing.
“It was a brilliant plan to bring down two birds with one stone. Once Claudius was out of the way, you betrayed the rebels. You raided their headquarters and killed many of them while setting the living ones to running like hunted animals. Fortunately for Gerard, he escaped and went into hiding. Meanwhile, the situation seems to have gone from bad to worse as you prepare to take Claudius’s place as king.”
Valentinian forced a smile. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Gerard doesn’t take betrayal lightly, Valentinian. He asked me to pay you a visit and to lay down the rebels’ demands.”
“Really.”
“Fortunately, his request coincided with yours, and your guards let me in entirely without incident.”
“What are the demands?”
“They’re very simple. First, you will call off this secret meeting that you instigated to force Princess Amabel to marry you. Second, you will allow elections to be held in Navarre and every other city in Tereus to elect a new government. Lastly, you will be exiled from Tereus permanently.”
“Is that all?” Valentinian’s laugh rang hollowly. “You forgot to ask for the moon, didn’t you?”
“Those are the demands. It’s all or nothing, Valentinian.”
“And do you really believe that I would give in to every single one of them?”
Preston shook his head slowly. “No, I really didn’t think you would.”
Valentinian licked dry lips. “Whatever he’s paying you, I will pay you ten times more. And once I become king you can’t imagine what riches I can heap on you.”
“Even if you pay me a hundred times more, it will still add up to zero. Because that’s exactly how much Gerard is paying me.”
“Why?” Valentinian frowned. “What’s in this for you?”
Preston shrugged. “It concerns matters of conscience and principles and all that. I doubt you’ll understand.” His eyes narrowed. “If you had left things alone, I wouldn’t have returned. I saw that the rebellion was alive and well, and for every rebel you killed, three sprouted up to take his place. Deny it all you want, Valentinian, but your empire would have fallen eventually under the weight of its own cruelties and injustices.”
“Why did you return, really?” Valentinian leaned forward. “Whatever you want, I’m sure we can come to an agreement, you and I.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you only need to concede to one of the rebels’ demands.”
“And which one is that?”
“Give up all thought of marrying Amabel.”
Valentinian’s nodded slowly. “Ah, but you see the problem. You know perfectly well she’s my key to the throne.”
“You’ll have to give that up as well, won’t you?” Preston said steadily.
Comprehension flickered in Valentinian’s eyes. A slow smile spread across his face. “Perhaps you enjoyed your time with her, eh, Preston? I understand perfectly. Once I’m king, and after the royal honeymoon, I can make certain arrangements to your – ah -- satisfaction.”
Preston was silent, a dangerous, icy stillness about him.
“I can be just as generous as Claudius to my loyal supporters, you see. So what do you say, Preston?”
Preston’s face was a cold, hard mask. “I’d say that was the last mistake you’ll ever make.”
Valentinian suddenly jumped up to his feet, pointing his gun steadily at Preston’s heart.
“Do you take me for a fool, Preston? Very soon, reinforcements will be arriving outside that door. I just pressed a button on my belt that raised the alarm instantly.”
“You just signed your own death warrant.”
Valentinian sneered. “I don’t think that even you can take on 200 soldiers at one time. But perhaps I’ll save them the trouble.”
He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
Preston dove out of the chair. Before he hit the floor, he had withdrawn the dagger that he had been hiding up his sleeve and threw it with all the speed and power he was capable of.
The laser blast had scorched a hole in the back of the chair where Preston’s heart had been. Valentinian swayed on his feet, the hilt of the dagger protruding from his neck, blood gurgling out of the severed artery in his throat. His eyes stared emptily at Preston. In another moment he fell with a crash to the floor.
Preston heard the sound of shouts and clattering of boots outside the door. Quickly, he removed a bandolier loaded with photon grenades from the rucksack he had brought and draped it over his shoulder and across his chest. Then, with two metallic clicks, a gun appeared in each of his hands, both charged and ready.
He waited with a still, unnatural calm.
It was a simple matter of standing his ground as the guards broke through the door. The doorway served as a bottleneck that limited the number of guards coming through the door at any one time. For a few seconds it seemed like target practice--- until the guards got wise to it and an order was shouted to retreat.
Before the guards could regroup and rethink their strategy, Preston leapt over the pile of bodies in the doorway and ran outside into the long, wide vaulted hallway outside the chamber.
He had already committed the layout of the interlocking corridors to memory while he had been escorted to Valentinian’s chambers. The main hallway that led straight to the chambers joined another corridor that ran in front in both directions.
Without a pause, he simultaneously lobbed a grenade in each direction of the corridor that cut perpendicularly into the main hallway and kept running. After five seconds, guards that had been crouching there were thrown back by the violent expansion of air caused by the photon blast. In the next few moments, the photonic wave imploded back on itself, leaving a neatly circumscribed area of fiery destruction.
The explosions shook the palace. Fire, debris and smoke erupted from the corridor behind Preston as he ran down the hallway. In front of him were the remaining guards, around 100 or so, temporarily disoriented by his swift, brutal assault.
Preston switched to Gun Kata mode in mid-stride. It took a second to map the positions of each of his opponents in relation to himself and each other, another second to mathematically calculate the moves that would produce the optimum coverage of his targets while presenting the least vulnerable profile, then another ten seconds to transform his calculations into reality.
His movements were a blur, a fluid dance of death, his guns spitting out intense bursts of light with deadly accuracy.
Eventually, the tips of his Firdausi guns powered down to a soft blue glow. The silence was broken by the crackle of scattered fire and the thudding of chunks of ceiling falling down to the floor of the hallway he had just destroyed.
Not for long. He heard shouts and the pounding of boots coming up the stairs at the end of the hallway.
He smiled. He liked stairs even more than he liked doorways.
~~~~~~~
For several minutes there was an uneasy murmur in the Council Chamber as everyone wondered.
A captain of the guard came bursting into the Council Chamber and all eyes turned to stare at him.
“The Chancellor was murdered in his chambers!” he panted. “And four members of the Council were shot, just outside the gate, just as they were about to enter. We think the rebels killed them.”
Pandemonium erupted in the chamber. Some were shouting, some were running out. Dewinter stood looking relieved, running his hands through his hair, while his friends quietly shook each other’s hands.
He felt a hand on his sleeve and turned. It was Desdemona, looking distraught. “My lord, you told me to keep an eye on the princess—“
“Yes?” he urged her.
“She’s been in her bedchamber all morning and won’t let anyone of her handmaidens in. She’s been going through her mother’s things, weeping. She—“
She had no chance to finish as Lord Dewinter was already running towards the royal residential wing.
He banged on the door as the royal handmaiden’s stood watching anxiously.
“Your highness?” he shouted. “Amabel!”
There was no answer. Lord Dewinter gestured to the guards to break the doors down. It took several minutes, for the doors were thick and heavy. Once they broke through, Dewinter pushed past them into the high-vaulted bedchamber and gestured for the guards to remain outside.
He saw her at once. Through the balcony door, he saw her.
The skirt of her gown fluttered in the breeze as she stood on the balustrade. It was the exact same spot where Maximus had jumped off on the night he had assassinated Claudius.
“Amabel?” he said gently so as not to startle her. Very slowly, he walked towards the balcony.
“Hello, Uncle Robert,” she called over her shoulder. “I’d hoped you didn’t have to see this, but since you decided to come, I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Amabel—“
“No, don’t come any nearer,” she warned.
He stopped. “Amabel, it’s all over.”
“I’m not very brave, you know,” she went on in a quivering voice, not turning around. “I’m afraid to die. But I’m more afraid of living. Living and knowing what I’d become. And knowing that I could end the dynasty once and for all.”
“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself, Amabel. It’s over, it’s all over. We went for broke and the gamble paid off.”
Amabel half turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Maximus is back in Tereus, Amabel. Valentinian is dead. And Maximus will stay until every single one of Valentinian’s supporters are either dead or in prison.”
“Don’t,” she cried out. “I’m only fooling myself if I think he still’s alive. I saw him jump off this balcony that night with my own eyes. He’s dead, I know he’s dead.”
“He’s very much alive, Amabel.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Dewinter smiled. “Because I just talked to him yesterday. And he’s here right now--- in the palace, very probably doing his mass destruction bit. You must have heard the explosions.”
“What?” she said dazedly.
“At my request, the rebel leader Gerard called him four days ago to ask him to finish what he had started. And he came back. He’s known to us as John Preston.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Come, Amabel, you’re making me very nervous standing there.”
She stared down at him, struggling to decide whether to believe him or not. In the end, she placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be lifted down. Dewinter embraced her and she clung to him, sobbing. They stood like that on the balcony for several minutes as the sea breeze soothed them.
“Your mother had made me promise to look after you.”
“She did?” she whispered.
“She didn’t know who else to turn. You were alone. She, of all people, knew that you would need someone—a protector, a champion.” He paused. “At first, I doubted the wisdom of hiring the assassin. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but we’d run out of options. And when it came time to choosing between you and Valentinian --- well, it’s not much of a choice, is it?”
Amabel felt the tears flow like a cleansing stream. She smiled up at him through the shimmering haze. “I’m glad you chose me.”
[/FONT]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:16:31 GMT -5
CHAPTER 5
The horse that pulled the cart looked old and tired, a lot like Henry himself. He and the man sat in the front, while the back was loaded with the latest harvest of wheat, barley, cabbage and potatoes. They had started just before dawn, since the ten-mile ride would probably take them several hours.
The road ran through the valley where Henry’s farm was located, surrounded by sloping mountains to the north, south and west. To the east stretched the fertile plains that characterized the planet Theroux. In the early morning hours, the air was cool and damp.
The man was dressed in Henry’s clothes, let out as far as they could by Esther. The man was thin enough to fit them although the sleeves of the shirt and jacket and the trouser legs were too short. The splint had been removed the night before, the bones having healed almost completely, but he walked with a slight limp and was assisted by a long stick that Henry had cut from a tree.
The man drank in his surroundings. It was as if he was seeing the world for the first time. And, in reality, he was.
He questioned the farmer about the valley, the country of Briand-Coeur, the planet of Theroux. He learned that Theroux was a small terraformed planet in the system MTX-7, otherwise known as Viernon, with a medium-sized sun; it was a young planet near well-traveled trade routes of the galaxy, colonized a hundred years ago by another planet in the neighboring system.
The farmer had told him how he found him—about the firestorm, about the wreckage of what appeared to be a planetary antigrav transport. Then the farmer had showed him the debris that he had collected and had stored in one of his barns. It was an enormous pile that took up almost a quarter of the barn’s interior.
But none of it jogged the man’s memory—not the twisted metal that had once been sleek and polished, nor the large intact piece that must have once been an open-air cockpit.
Just before they reached the village, the farmer told him what to expect. It was a rather close community, and strangers weren’t readily welcomed. So Henry had suggested that for now the man should go under the name of Magnus Cook, the son of one of his brothers who lived in a distant star system, and that he had come to visit Henry and Esther for a few weeks. The man agreed to the suggestion without hesitation, grasping at the chance to possess an identity-- albeit an assumed one.
The village of Auxerre was small, inhabited by some 300 citizens. Most of the dwellings and stores were simple but well-kept, except for a few residences on the nearest hill which seemed like castles compared to the average building in Auxerre. Most of the transport consisted of beasts of burden and carts, with a few motorized conveyances owned by the wealthier inhabitants.
The doctor’s clinic was next to the mercantile. Henry parked the cart in front, then he and Magnus passed through the weather-beaten door and sat down in the empty, windowless waiting room, which consisted of a few chairs and a small table.
“Remember,” Henry whispered, “You’re Magnus, my nephew. You fell while riding the horse over the fields. Don’t tell him that you can’t remember anything—he may be a doctor but I still don’t trust him. Leave the talking to me.”
Magnus didn’t question him. It never occurred to him to do so—by now, he had come to depend on the farmer. Not only did he owe the farmer his life, he also realized that the farmer was the only link he had to his past and, perhaps, the future.
Doctor William Yarrow was a young, good-looking man with blond hair and brown eyes. He was almost as tall as Magnus but a bit more fleshed out. He eyed the two of them sourly, then gestured for them to enter the examining room.
He took Henry’s introduction without comment. He indicated the examining table to Magnus, and after an uncertain glance at Henry, Magnus lay down on it. The examination was brief and efficient, and when Henry explained the injuries Magnus had suffered, his eyebrows rose.
“Why didn’t you call for me?” he demanded.
Henry said humbly, “You know we can’t afford you, doc.”
Yarrow grunted. He examined Magnus’ eyes with a small bright light. “Well, it doesn’t look like anything is amiss. He suffered concussion, but seems to have recovered. He’s got a sound constitution— strong heart, good lungs, his inner plumbing seems to be working all right. You just need to put more meat on these bones. Does he have any other symptoms?” By now, he had assumed that Magnus couldn’t speak for himself, addressing all his comments and questions exclusively to Henry.
Henry hesitated. “I thought perhaps you could tell me.”
Yarrow sighed and leaned against the table. “Look, Henry, I can’t help you if I don’t know his symptoms. I can’t look into his brain. That would require sophisticated equipment that doesn’t exist on this god-forsaken planet.”
“Well, if you don’t see anything wrong, doc, I guess he’s all right then,” Henry said hastily. “We’ll just be on our way.”
Yarrow shook his head in disgust and waved them away. Why did he put up with these locals? “You know my fee. Go on, now. Go.”
“I’ll leave it just inside your door, doc,” Henry said as he pushed Magnus out the door. Yarrow went back inside the examining room, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
As Magnus climbed with some effort into the cart, Henry took a few coins out of his pocket, removed a burlap bag full of potatoes from the back of the cart, and left them inside the waiting room.
Magnus was frowning slightly as Henry navigated the cart back down the street, which was beginning to fill up for market day.
“If you couldn’t afford to pay him, why did you take me there?”
Henry shrugged. “I thought maybe he could help you. I suspected that your problem might be beyond his abilities, and I had to know. Now I do.”
“He doesn’t like it here, does he?”
Henry glanced at him. “You noticed that, did you? Everyone in Auxerre knows it. He’s here for one reason, and that reason lives in one of those fancy houses up there.” He jerked his head towards the hill just under a quarter kilometer from the village. “He’s always wanted to marry into the DeCorvier family. They own most of the land here, you know, as far as you can see on the plain. And Sara DeCorvier is considered a great beauty even by intergalactic standards. She lives on Theroux with her father although she could live offworld if she chose to. I believe the good doctor spends more time at their place more than he does at his practice.”
At the village square, other farmers were already setting up their goods. Henry showed Magnus what needed to be done, and Henry was pleased to see the boy perform everything exactly as he was instructed to do.
Almost unconsciously, Henry had come to regard the man as a boy. Although there was nothing remotely boyish about his appearance, there was an almost child-like, trusting look in his eyes whenever he regarded the farmer.
Most of Henry’s friends and acquaintances were surprised to know he had a nephew, but Magnus was immediately accepted--- although some of them undoubtedly thought that the man was a little slow. He couldn’t answer even the simplest questions about where he came from, and looked to Henry to rescue him from the awkward silences.
In the end, Henry thought it was best that Magnus came to be regarded as somewhat dull-witted. It prevented further questions--- questions that Henry didn’t know the answers to himself.
~~~~~~~
It was several months before the chaos in Navarre and the rest of Tereus had died down to a semblance of peace and order. A new interim government had been set up; leaders were elected, with Lord Dewinter holding the new title of Prime Minister.
The palace had become a national historical treasure, a portion opened to the public while the rest had been converted to offices for high officials. Many of Claudius’s and Valentinian’s supporters were in prison or had fled the planet.
Amabel had been staying with Lord Dewinter and his wife since she left the palace all those months ago. She loved their house in the country, had always loved it as a child. Miranda had been a good friend of her mother’s and had now opened her arms and home to Amabel.
Freedom was something Amabel thought she could get addicted to. A year ago, it would have been unthinkable to actually be able to choose what to do with herself during the day, or to have the liberty to see or not see anyone, or especially to travel wherever she wanted.
It was quite exhilarating to have so much freedom to make her own decisions, even in small matters. Should she ride her horse or stay in the library and read a book? Or should she paint a small landscape of the house or write letters? For dinner, should she wear the satin or the silk? No matter how mundane the choice was, she took the greatest pleasure in making it.
One evening, Lord Dewinter came home for a brief respite from his full schedule. There were still many problems and issues to be dealt with by the new government, but there was healthy dialogue and debate in the Council and much progress had already been made.
During dinner, Amabel drank in all the news he brought back from the capital. And once again, she was disappointed not to hear news of Maximus. She hid her disappointment well.
“There’s a present for you upstairs,” Lord Dewinter said, his eyes twinkling.
“A present? For me?”
“In your bedroom.”
After dinner, Amabel went back to her bedroom, lighter and happier than she’d ever been in her life—except for a certain longing that she could not seem to escape.
In the candlelight in her bedroom, she saw the large box on her bed. She lifted the lid, and out of it came a panting, squirmy bundle of fur, and with a cry of delight she gathered it up to her bosom. The puppy immediately took to her and licked her hands.
“Aren’t you the most adorable thing?” she cooed. “What’s your name? No, I’ve decided you don’t have a name. I think I’ll call you Maximus.”
She played with the puppy on the floor for a long while, after which she sorted the other items in the box. There was a small warm bed, two bowls for food and water, and some food and a bottle of milk, which the puppy attacked with gusto.
After soothing the puppy to sleep in its bed, she stood up, stretched and yawned. Time for bed, and not for the first time she wished she had kept at least one of her handmaidens. It still felt rather strange to dress herself. But she had decided to let them go with dowries to live their own lives many months ago.
“Damn,” she muttered. She reached behind her back and tried to pull down the zipper of her dress, but it got stuck halfway down.
“Would you like some help?”
She whirled around. Out of the shadows cast by candlelight, he moved forward slowly.
She stared at him, open-mouthed. “You!” Then for the first time in years, she felt herself blushing hotly. “How long have you been watching me?”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Maximus said sardonically. “May I?” Without waiting for a reply, he dropped down into one of the armchairs near her bed. “I was going to say something, but you and the puppy made such an entertaining picture that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He smiled. “Although I did have to speak up before you undressed, or you would never have forgiven me.”
“You’re right, I would have thrown you out,” she murmured.
She sank down slowly on the edge of her bed, facing him. He was still half in shadow, but she could discern enough to know that he was studying her thoroughly from head to foot, with that steady, unreadable gaze that made her nervous. She cleared her throat. “So—are you here on business? Assassinating anyone I know?”
“Not at the moment. But yes, it’s mostly business — with Prime Minister Dewinter.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed, but hid it with a smile. “You have an unconventional way of dropping in on people. Is it just me, or do you make a habit of shocking ladies in their bedrooms on social calls?”
He said calmly, “Prime Minister Dewinter wanted to surprise you, and I’ve been in your bedroom before, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
There was her schoolgirl blush again. “Speaking of that, I’ve always wanted to know --- how did you survive that jump? I could have sworn you didn’t have any wings.”
“Ah. That’s a trade secret, I’m afraid. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Very funny.”
“Actually, I used what’s called a parasail—made of the thinnest, strongest memory fabric. It folds to the size of a small book and is highly maneuverable in the air.”
“Oh.”
The puppy woke up and padded over to her. Making cooing noises, she picked it up and laid it in her lap, gently stroking the soft fur. She was acutely aware that he was watching her.
“You like him?”
“I adore him. As you know-- having been witness to some of my most secret moments-- I called him Maximus. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. It’s appropriate, really, since I happened to have brought him for you.”
“You did?” Her eyes widened.
“I can’t bring you presents?”
“No, it’s just that you didn’t strike me as the gift-giving kind, especially puppies. You’re more like the kill-fifty-men-in-less-than-ten-seconds-without-batting-an-eyelash kind.”
He smiled. “He was a stray where I live. When I saw him, you immediately came to mind. Thought you could use the company.”
“How very thoughtful of you.” She brought the puppy to her cheek. “He’s just what I needed. Thank you.”
The soft sincerity in her voice startled him.
Dewinter was right, she had changed. There was no longer that guarded air about her, and the shadows in her eyes had disappeared. With no more constraints on her freedom, gone was the flirtatious, seductive temptress —to be replaced by a rather sweet, insecure woman, one who was still feeling her way around in a brand new world.
He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. Perhaps he’ll remind you of me more often.”
“Oh, I don’t need the puppy for that,” she said without thinking, and blushed heatedly when she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I—I owe you so much. My freedom, my life—I don’t know how I can begin to repay you.”
“You owe me nothing,” he said softly. “It’s best you realize that now. I’m a mercenary, remember?”
“I know.” She bit her lower lip. “But Uncle Robert told me that on principle you’re very selective about the jobs you take. And that you don’t come back to the same place twice.”
He shrugged. “I changed my mind, given the motivation.”
“You didn’t have to come back.” She hesitated. “And he also told me you came back because of me. Is that true?”
He was silent for a few seconds. “Yes,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have left you behind the first time. I came back to finish the job.”
“Is that all?”
“Does it matter?” He watched her intently.
“No, I suppose not.”
He stood up. “I should be going and let you sleep.”
Quickly, she put the puppy on the bed and stood up, turning around so that her back was to him. “Before you go, can you help me with the zipper? I think it’s stuck on something.”
He was silent for a few seconds, then she felt his fingers at her back as he worked the zipper down.
“Always happy to oblige,” he said dryly. “Mind you, handmaiden duty isn’t normally part of my services, so it will cost you dearly.”
She turned around and gazed up at him. “Thank you. Will a kiss be enough?”
He blinked. “I’m not sure what the going rate is among assassins, but yes, I think so.”
She placed her hands against his chest and reached up on tiptoe to press her lips to his. She kissed him slowly, sweetly, longingly, with no reserve.
There were no walls to hide behind this time.
He returned her kiss with a tightly restrained hunger, while she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. Her eager response served only to fuel his desire and his arms went tightly around her, bending her backwards as their kiss deepened until it seemed that he would lose complete control.
With almost inhuman effort, he tore his lips away, pulled her arms down from his neck, and held her away from him.
“Amabel.” He was breathing heavily. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Yes I do.” She moved as if to put her arms around his neck again, but he pulled away and walked behind the chair, putting his hands on the back and leaning on it. It took a few seconds before his training asserted itself and he had brought his heart rate and breathing to near normal levels again.
He shook his head slowly. “Do you really know who and what I am?”
She sank down a little shakily on the bed. “I think I do. Why don’t you tell me?”
“You don’t even know my real name.”
“Gideon Maximus,” she said promptly.
He frowned. “How do you know it’s not one of my pseudonyms?”
“It’s not,” she said, with a certainty that shook him momentarily out of his short-lived equanimity.
“I kill people for a living,” he said flatly. “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed so far. That doesn’t – bother you in the least?”
“Nobody’s perfect,” she said quietly. “I’m no saint either, as you know quite well.”
“But you don’t have to worry about the lives of those close to you,” he said grimly. “I have enemies in a dozen star systems. You wouldn’t be safe with me.”
Amabel gazed at him for a few moments. She said softly, “What are you really afraid of, Gideon?”
He sat down on the chair again and gazed down at his clasped hands for a long time. When he looked up at her, a flicker of something close to pain was in his eyes. “All my life, I’ve been trained to subjugate my emotions to the higher thought processes—and the Grammaton knows how to do this more than anyone else. We’ve even broken sex down to a cold science. It’s inculcated from earliest childhood until the last moment before we leave the Tetragrammaton. It makes us what we are -- highly efficient, ruthless killers -- and it’s become an inseparable part of me.”
She gazed at him in wide-eyed fascination.
“Someone once told my ancestor, John Preston, that there are those who have to forego the luxury of emotions so that others may have them. That became the Grammaton’s raison d’etre.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Amabel, you must know that I won’t be able to give you what you want.”
“I’ll take what you can give me,” she said simply. “I want you that much.”
“You deserve more than that.” “Who’s to say what anyone deserves?” Her lips trembled. “A year ago, I was a miserable wretch, wanting to die but not brave enough to end my life. I don’t even think I would’ve jumped even if Uncle Robert hadn’t stopped me.”
He stared at her.
“Then you came, and you gave everyone hope, even if that’s not what you intended. You gave it all the same. Whether you want it or not, you’ve become Tereus’s champion, its paladin. Even Uncle Robert admires you immensely. I can tell from the way he talks about you—the way his voice lowers in awe.” Her voice softened. “And that’s the way I feel about you. Before she died, my mother told Uncle Robert that I would be alone, and that I would need a champion.” She smiled tremulously at him as a bright tear trickled down her cheek. “Well, that’s what you were, even for a short time— my champion. My paladin. If you have to leave, at least you can’t take that away from me.”
She burst into tears. Maximus uttered a curse under his breath, then went to sit beside her and took her in his arms.
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” she sobbed against his chest. “Why won’t you let me love you? At least let me do that.”
The Tetragrammaton warns its pupils of a woman’s tears and tells them to avoid them as much as humanly possible. Now, Maximus knew why. In all his life, he had never felt so at a loss for what to do.
He placed his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up. He said softly, “Is that what you really want?”
“Yes,” she nodded, sniffling. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for her seeking lips…
The cleric was resigned to his fate --- which, he concluded, was inextricably entwined with this woman. After all, he was not the first cleric to be entangled by the silken snare of a woman’s arms.
[/FONT]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:19:30 GMT -5
Chapter 6
Before heading back home, Henry stopped at the DeCorvier chateau to make his usual delivery. He drove the cart up the tree-lined driveway, between lush, green manicured lawns and marble statues of heroes of the mythological past. Magnus stared around him in amazement.
“It’s like being in another world here,” Henry muttered.
He drove to the rear courtyard where the tradesmen’s entrance was located. He and Magnus clambered down from the cart just as the head steward, Gordon, came out to meet them.
“I hope this is better than your last delivery, Cook,” Gordon said acidly. “There were moldy potatoes in one of the bags.”
“But I check over everything before putting them in the bags,” Henry protested. “And you look at all the bags yourself.”
“You’re telling me I’m lying?”
“No, of course not. I---“
“You’re taking one-quarter off the price or you can take everything back.”
“One-quarter! But I saved the best for the DeCorviers!”
“Ha! Sure you did.” Gordon sneered, stabbed a finger into Henry’s chest, and gave him a little push. “Take my offer or take your damned moldy potatoes elsewhere.”
Magnus had been standing by the cart, watching this exchange anxiously. But when Gordon literally laid his finger on Henry and pushed him, he felt his face go hot as an unfamiliar wave of anger washed over him. His fists clenched and he took a step forward.
“Gordon!”
They all turned to stare as a young woman on a black horse cantered slowly towards them. She reined the horse to a stop and gazed down at the tableau with vivid blue eyes.
“What are you doing, Gordon?” she demanded icily.
“Taking the deliveries, miss,” Gordon said sullenly.
“Can’t you do it without causing a brawl?” She slipped down from the horse. She looked from Gordon, to Henry, to Magnus, and back again. “Is it too difficult to simply pay them?”
“No, miss,” Gordon muttered.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Gordon fumbled with some coins in his pocket and gave them to Henry. Henry doffed his shabby cap in deference to the young woman, and gestured to Magnus to help him unload the bags and carry them inside. They did this in silence, depositing the bags just inside the back door of an enormous kitchen.
When they were done, Gordon bowed wordlessly to the young woman and went inside.
The young woman smiled apologetically. “I’m very sorry about that, Henry. To be honest, I’ve been trying to convince my father to let Gordon go, but for some reason he thinks Gordon is useful.”
“No need to apologize, miss,” Henry said humbly. “I’ve dealt with him before.”
“Something tells me that it’s not Gordon who loses,” Sara DeCorvier said gently.
Henry reddened. “No, miss,” he admitted. “I’m an old man who has no taste for a fight, so I just give in.”
“I wouldn’t say the same for your friend here.” Her blue eyes regarded Magnus with lively interest. “He looked like he was ready to tear Gordon limb from limb.”
Magnus stared at her blankly. Henry said hastily, “This is my nephew, miss. Magnus, my younger brother’s son. He – er—came to help us on the farm.”
“Why, that’s wonderful for you,” said Sara, smiling. “You’ve always wanted help, haven’t you? And now you have it.”
“Yes, miss,” muttered Henry. “Well, we won’t keep you any longer. We’ll be going now.”
“Good-bye, Henry. Please give my regards to Esther.”
“Thank you, I will. Good-bye.”
“Welcome to Auxerre, Mr. Magnus,” Sara said, holding out her hand. Magnus continued to stare at her, dumbstruck by her beauty.
“I beg your pardon, miss, but he’s—uh—he hasn’t been right in the head since he fell off the horse last week,” Henry said quickly. He gently pushed Magnus towards the cart. “Come along, Magnus. We’re going now.”
Perplexed, Sara stared after them as the cart clattered away.
~~~~~~~
On the way back to the farm, Henry told Magnus that Sara DeCorvier was the only reason why he put up with Gordon. “Esther and I have known her since she was a child. She’s always been the soul of kindness to us, and comes to visit us occasionally.”
“She’s an angel,” Magnus muttered.
Henry’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “It seems your memory isn’t as damaged as it appears if you can remember what an angel is. What else do you remember?”
Magnus thought for a while. “I might have a temper,” he said apologetically.
Henry nodded. “Not necessarily a bad thing. You’ll need to re-learn how to control it, of course.”
“I’ll try. I also know how to read and do calculations.”
“That’ good, that’s very good. You will need it for what you need to do next.”
“Do next? What do you mean?”
Henry sighed. “You’ll have to start searching for your identity some day. After you’re completely healed, Esther and I will pay for your way to Cincinnatus, Theroux’s interplanetary junction. Your transport must have come from there, on its way to somewhere on the planet. You must make inquiries and find out if any transports had gone missing in the past two months. Perhaps there are people looking for you now. Who knows, you might even have a family waiting for you.”
“A family?” Magnus digested this. It was possible, of course. But then, he could be anyone. “I suppose you’re right. But you and your wife don’t need to pay for me—you’ve already done so much.”
“We want to,” Henry said, for some reason avoiding his eyes. “We like to give to people in need. And somehow, I’ve come to feel responsible for you.”
Magnus felt another emotion rise up in his throat, almost choking him. He thought it might be gratitude.
“Do you think I can do it? Travel by myself, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said truthfully. “There are many things that you need to re-learn. But then, you might still remember a great deal that you don’t know yet. You’ll need time to prepare, of course, so you’ll stay on the farm until you’re ready.”
Magnus swallowed. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
“You’ll need to regain your strength,” Henry said briskly. “When I first found you, I could tell you had been a man in top form. Nothing like a farm to build up muscle again.”
“I’d like to help,” Magnus said with quiet earnestness. “Miss DeCorvier said you’ve been needing help on the farm.”
“What farmer doesn’t?” Henry moved his shoulders wearily. “I’m getting too old. Esther and I had hoped to have children, but we were never able to…” he trailed off, a look of sadness crossing his wrinkled face.
They were silent for most of the rest of the journey, each man thinking his own thoughts.
~~~~~~~~
Like many other planets in the galaxy, Theroux had been patterned after Old Earth --- except that the polar ice caps had been eliminated. It had been designed with an atmosphere and various ecosystems perfectly suited for human and animal life. There were the same wet, tropical climates at the equator, the same four seasons in the temperate zones such as where Henry’s valley was located.
Over the next few weeks, as the weather turned cooler and turned leaves golden and russet and ocher, Magnus thoroughly learned the operation of the farm. Henry started him on simple chores, like milking cows and goats in the barn, collecting eggs from the chicken coop, cleaning out stalls and feeding the hundred or so sheep, twenty goats, ten cows and three horses that Henry owned.
As his strength grew and his limp disappeared, he went on to more arduous tasks, like collecting the last autumn harvests, fixing fences and whatever else needed fixing around the farm, lifting and transferring bales of hay, cutting and splitting firewood, building structures that Henry had always wanted to put up, preparing the fields for the next planting season, and anything else that needed to be done---- all with a quiet stoicism that surprised the farmer and his wife.
While he took his meals in the farmhouse kitchen, he lodged in the barn where the pile of debris was located. He and Henry cleaned up the small loft and added a simple pallet for a bed, a table, a chair, a small trunk, a wood stove, as well as a gas lantern, wash basin, and other toiletry items that he would need. Esther had managed to make him some rough work clothes that fit, and Henry had bought him two pairs of heavy boots suitable for use on the farm.
Magnus accompanied Henry to the village for market days and to make the usual deliveries at the DeCorvier’s. Gordon’s manner remained brusque and insulting, but he had given up his extortionist schemes once Sara had discovered them. Sometimes, but not very often, Sara would be there, stopping to talk briefly and pleasantly with them, although Magnus was unfailingly tongue-tied in her presence. When she wasn’t there, he was disappointed and found himself in a dark mood for the rest of the day.
As the days turned even cooler, Magnus kept warm in the barn through the woodstove, and by keeping himself busy when all his tasks and chores were done for the day.
One of his favorite activities was to sort through the debris.
Henry had ordered blueprints of several antigrav transports for him and they had finally come after weeks of waiting. Using the blueprints, Magnus began to piece together the charred remains of the transport like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. First he would clean the pieces, then he would sort them by what he guessed its function was.
Considering his work on the farm would typically end long after the sun had sunk behind the mountains, and more often than not he was exhausted from his labor, and there were probably hundreds of pieces, it was a laborious, time-consuming process that would probably take him months.
Another favorite activity was reading. Henry would bring him old newspapers, books and whatever else he could get in the village, and Magnus devoured them faster than Henry could find them. He found that what he thought were assumptions of the world he saw were actually his vestigial memory, still intact and active— and he discovered to his surprise that he knew quite a lot.
As time went on, he experimented with his memory to determine what exactly he knew and what he could do, using every experience as an opportunity to test his knowledge and skills.
His quiet life and work on the farm gave him a certain amount of satisfaction, and there was a sameness to his routine every day that Magnus found comforting.
In their own quiet way, the old couple had become fond of him. It was clear to him that they had also come to depend on him, for Henry was no longer as vigorous as he used to be. Before Magnus came, the farm had slowly been running down. But now, under his efficient, meticulous care, the farm was experiencing a complete turnaround.
There were times that Magnus thought he wanted to stay on the farm for the rest of his life. But he knew he couldn’t. He had a past, perhaps a family that depended on him. And there was that undeniable part of him that longed to know who he really was, what his part in the great scheme of life had been.
He and Henry had agreed that when spring came, long after the snows had melted and the roads were passable once again, he would go to Cincinnatus and begin his search.
~~~~~~~~
Sara was exasperated with William Yarrow. No matter how many times she had made it clear that she could never regard him as more than a friend, he persisted in torturing himself by coming to see her as often as he could. Perhaps he thought that he could wear her down if he kept at it long enough. And, after three years, Sara was beginning to even entertain the thought that it wouldn’t be a bad match after all.
There were other considerations as well. As long as her father was alive, she knew she would never leave Theroux. He was a wheelchair-bound invalid who refused to leave Theroux; on Theroux was everything he had worked so hard all his life to attain—his lands, his wealth, his tenants, his respected status even as far as Cincinnatus. And she knew that William had no intention of staying in Theroux if he got his way.
Although she had spent a great deal of her childhood and teen years in exclusive boarding schools on more civilized, sophisticated planets, she felt at home in Auxerre. She loved the wild mountains, the rolling green farmlands, the simple but honest folk. She loved the freedom of riding her horse as far as she could safely go. This was where she had been born, and where her mother had died.
She had determined that she would be groomed to run the DeCorvier empire and not wait for her husband to do it. It had been a battle to convince her father, but he had finally given in to her persuasive ways and agreed to train her to take over the reins. Over the years, experience told him that there was nothing he could refuse his daughter.
It was one point that he and William disagreed on, which was one of the reasons she kept him at arm’s length.
That evening, the DeCorviers had dinner as usual in the formal dining room. And, as usual, Dr. William Yarrow was their guest, as well as the village burgrave, Pierre Rouleau. Dinner was pleasant enough, with talk of the latest news that they had seen on the infonet.
“What is Cincinnatus coming to?” the burgrave was saying, shaking his head. “The city has been steadily deteriorating for several decades. Why, I remember how it was as a boy--- people could walk the streets at night without worrying about getting their throats slashed.”
“The city had stronger leadership then,” Michel DeCorvier said. “The Council today is made up of puppets voted in with organized crime money. And the Minister is no better.”
“When will it end? There were six robberies this week alone! I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, burgrave,” William said carelessly. “The people of Cincinnatus allow it to happen. If they don’t care, why should you?”
“That’s exactly the attitude that got Cincinnatus into trouble in the first place,” the burgrave muttered.
“Perhaps you should care because we all live on this world,” Sara said icily. “What happens in Cincinnatus affects us here in one way or another.”
“So we should be wringing our hands everyday?” William shrugged. “What can we do? Your father is right. The government is riddled with corruption from top to bottom. Almost the entire police force is in the underworld’s pocket.”
“There’s always something we can do,” Michel said quietly.
“Are you still supporting Smith in the next election?” the burgrave inquired.
“Unquestionably.”
“Do you really think Smith will follow through on his promises to crack down on the underworld?” William said curiously.
“Yes, I do. I met him last year. I believe he’s exactly the man that Cincinnatus needs, and I pride myself on being a good judge of character.”
“With your financial support, he might have a chance after all,” the burgrave nodded. “The polls show that he’s gaining several points on Duquesne. He might pull it off--- who knows?”
“He’s a brave man,” Sara murmured. “I admire him immensely.”
“Yes, very brave,” William agreed. He was about to add, “Or very foolish.” He still vividly remembered the last candidate for Minister of Cincinnatus three years ago and what happened to him. But he wisely kept silent, knowing that any negative remarks about David Smith would be poorly received in the present company.
[/FONT]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:21:16 GMT -5
(CHAPTER 6 CONTINUED)
As a red Terean dawn filtered through the bedroom windows, Amabel awoke to find Gideon no longer in bed. She sat up, felt around for her peignoir, found it and slipped it on.
Two months before, they had married in a secret ceremony at Villion, Amabel’s ancestral home located on a remote island accessible only by airship or marine craft. The simple ceremony had been attended and witnessed only by the Dewinters, the secrecy being necessary to preserve Maximus’s anonymity.
They had remained in Villion and were still technically on their honeymoon.
She noticed that one of the doors to the balcony was open and she padded towards it. At the doorway, she stopped and watched, fascinated.
Wearing only his pajama bottom, Maximus was practicing some sort of fighting exercise—what did he call it? There was an almost ballet-like quality about it, the efficient, fluid movements an automatic expression of the beautifully muscled body. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation. She watched him for several minutes, thinking herself unnoticed.
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Good morning.”
She started a little and laughed. “Good morning, darling. How long have you been out here?”
“An hour.”
“What do you call that?”
His eyes opened and he looked at her without missing a beat of the exercise. “It’s called a Gun Kata. An ancient Grammaton invention.”
At the word “gun,” Amabel’s smile faded. She watched him soberly for another minute.
“Any particular reason why you’re doing that exercise now?”
He smiled at her. “Just that I needed some exercise—other than the ones we do in bed.”
He could still make her blush. But her feminine instinct told her that he wasn’t telling her something.
“You’re going back, aren’t you?”
He halted the exercise and slowly straightened to a standing position. He held her gaze steadily. “You know I have to go back eventually.”
“But we’re on our honeymoon,” she protested.
“It’s been two months already. It has to end sometime.”
She gave him one of those looks that he had come to know so well. “Oh, so it’s gone on too long for you, has it?”
He sighed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He walked towards her, grasped her slender waist with both hands, bent down and kissed her lips gently. “What I mean is, much as I would love to stay here with you, I have to attend to certain matters.”
She shook her head and smiled up at him. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like some silly, clinging female when I’d promised myself I would never do it. I just thought you didn’t have to take any jobs if you didn’t want to, that’s all.”
“It’s not that simple.” He hesitated for a moment, then he took her hand, led her to the bed, sat down and pulled her down to sit beside him. “I received two messages on my PCC last night. One from the Tetragrammaton, and another from a cleric.”
She stared at him in surprise. “You clerics stay in touch with each other, then?”
“Well, it’s not like we talk to each other every day,” he said dryly. “But yes, we stay in touch when necessary. We have each other’s PCC codes memorized. You have to remember that many of us grew up like brothers in the monastery. And sometimes, a job requires that two or more clerics work together. I’ve done it myself several times.”
“You have?” This was something about himself that she’d never heard before, and she listened with rapt interest.
“Yes. There are many things clerics can’t do alone. For example, I can’t fight an entire army by myself.” He paused. “Or discipline other clerics.”
Amabel frowned. “What do you mean?”
“At some time or other a few clerics choose to abandon their oaths and turn to crime. Some have become terrorists; others have formed or joined criminal groups or go off on their own. The common factor is that they kill civilian innocents indiscriminately. For this reason, the Tetragrammaton built in a self-correcting feature in the clerical order.”
Comprehension dawned on Amabel. “Other clerics.”
He nodded.
“Is that where you’re going, to discipline a cleric? But what has he done?”
“Not just one cleric.” He sighed. “Apparently there’s a new criminal element in Cincinnatus, a city on the planet Theroux in the MTX-7 system. Reports claim that an organized crime ring, having as many as five hundred or more members, is responsible for a robbery spree in the past few weeks. Their methods have led the Tetragrammaton to suspect that clerics are involved, so two clerics were sent a week ago to investigate and confirm the reports. I received confirmation in the message last night.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Seek and capture," he said quietly. "If capture isn’t possible, they are to be terminated.”
“You’d execute other clerics without a trial? I thought that was contrary to Grammaton law.”
“The law applies to civilians, not clerics in the order. You have to understand, from an early age a cleric is bred to be a particularly effective weapon to be utilized for legitimate purposes only. When a cleric crosses the line, it’s tantamount to declaring war on the innocent.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve seen the damage one cleric can do. I don’t think you can imagine what several clerics working together are capable of.” “How do you determine what the line is?”
“It’s a rather complex subject that the Tetragrammaton has catalogued and documented for hundreds of years. Basically, the line is determined by principles of democracy and individual freedom. That’s why I felt I was at liberty to assassinate Claudius and Valentinian and destroy their machine for oppression— they were a threat to the lives and individual freedoms of Tereans, including yourself.”
“But aren’t there dangers involved in allowing a cleric to decide so much? Couldn’t anyone other than yourself, anyone who has no scruples or principles, quite possibly become a law unto himself?”
“Exactly. It’s a double-edged sword, just as any benign government has the capacity to be manipulated by the unscrupulous. That’s why it’s imperative that we clerics police ourselves, or someone else will --- because otherwise we’ll run amok, and any good we accomplish will be eventually destroyed.”
“You said there were five hundred or more clerics. Is that even possible?”
“Most of them are thugs led by a handful of clerics. We’re not sure yet who they are. The Tetragrammaton sent out a message to all active PCCs asking clerics to verbally report back. So far, we’ve been able to account for only 293 clerics.”
“293?” Amabel stared. “Exactly how many of you are there?”
“The estimates are around 355 living clerics, give or take 10.” He looked slightly apologetic. “Once a cleric leaves Earth, it’s impossible to trace his movements if he doesn’t want to be found. We calculate that around 50 clerics have chosen to retire due to age or some reason of their own. Of those, a few have chosen to live in anonymity in recent years, so we can’t account for them. Some of them may already be dead. And of course there’s the criminal component --- understandably, many renegade clerics don’t like to reveal their whereabouts to the Tetragrammaton.”
“Are any clerics married? Besides you, I mean.”
“Oh yes. An inevitable result of mingling with the population at large. At last count, 89 are married. Fifty-four are married with children. Many are attached but not married. Like us, a few have married secretly, especially those in my line of business.”
“They don’t all do what you do?”
“Only 15 of us are legitimate free agents--- mercenaries, if you will. Eight are in politics and even hold political office--- two of them are actually global leaders. Nine decided to go into other lines of work. Many more, around 100, chose to go into law enforcement. 125 chose military or government agencies.” He paused. “I was in a government agency once, several years ago, before I started my own private endeavor.”
Amabel was mesmerized. “Why did you? Start it, I mean?”
He shrugged. “It seemed easier that way to deal with all the requests for my services.” “Did you like working for the agency?”
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I was in charge of a galactic terrorist response unit.” He searched his mind for memories that had long been buried. “We’d become an efficient, close-knit team. We covered each other’s backs, and I’d even come to know some of their families.” He glanced at her wryly. “A mercenary has no one to rely on but himself. At times it becomes rather tedious.”
“Have you ever thought you might want to – well, go back to working for an agency again?”
Her casual tone didn’t fool him. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Did you know that Prime Minister Dewinter had offered me my own security organization in the new government?”
Amabel gasped. “No, he didn’t tell me!”
“That was the business I’d mentioned when I came back to visit you that night. I told him I’d think about it.”
Amabel’s eyes searched his face. “And have you?”
“I’ve been rather occupied with something else for the past two months,” he said casually, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
She grasped his arm and said pleadingly, “Will you please at least think about it?”
“When I come back,” he promised. “I have to take care of this business in Cincinnatus first.”
“Must you go? There must be others who can go instead of you.”
“The other call I mentioned was from one of the clerics in my graduating class. We’ve worked together before. He’s going, and he asked me to go too.” He paused. “I have to go, Amabel. Before I left the monastery, I’d pledged an oath to maintain the integrity of the Grammaton.”
She sighed. “And how many of you are going?”
“So far, five. It’s strictly voluntary, but I suspect there would be more than enough. And we’ve done it before with a 100% success rate.”
“You’d better come back, or I’ll kill you myself.” She pummeled his chest with a small fist in mock rage.
He grabbed her hand and grinned down at her. “I’m told that married clerics have a higher than usual percentage of survival due to an enhanced level of self-preservation. I think that may be true.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “If I knew you were waiting for me, nothing in the galaxy could keep me from coming back.”
She wound her arms around his neck and pushed him back on the bed. She murmured suggestively, “Perhaps I should give you something to think about to help that self-preservation along.”
[/FONT]
|
|
Amie
Resistance Member
Posts: 32
|
Post by Amie on Nov 9, 2005 0:26:21 GMT -5
CHAPTER 7
Magnus had recently discovered a new skill -- among others -- quite serendipitously.
He had been in the barn one day, sharpening all the farm’s knives, axes, and shears on a whetstone, when suddenly, from behind a wooden barrel, a rat the size of a small cat went scurrying across the floor.
He didn’t remember even thinking about it. All he knew was that he had picked up a sharpened knife from the workbench and had thrown it powerfully through the air in the direction of the rat--- all in less than two seconds.
The result had been a dead rat, the knife cleaving the spine open.
He practiced on the wooden beams of the barn in his spare time, chalking in concentric circles to serve as a target, with the central circle in red as the bull’s eye. Eventually, he had worn a hole in the wood where the bull’s eye had been, and would have to re-draw the target on another part of the beam or another beam altogether. He practiced on rats too, thus taking care of the rat problem on the farm.
By now it had become a game to see how many knives he could throw in less than five seconds.
Ffffwack. Ffffwack. Ffffwack. Ffffwack. Fffwack. Fffwack.
One after the other, the knives hit the center circle with a speed that made the knives look like formless slivers in the air
He had just driven the last of the six knives into a crowded bull’s eye when a clear feminine voice spoke from the open barn door.
“Having fun, Magnus?”
Magnus whirled around, the familiar flush spreading over his tanned cheeks.
A smiling Sara DeCorvier was standing in the doorway, the cold sunlight finding chestnut highlights in the thick dark hair that flowed over one shoulder.
And, as usual, all Magnus could do for the moment was stare at her.
“I came to visit Esther,” she explained. “She wanted to know if you’ll be coming in for lunch.”
“I—uh—I have a few more things to do,” he muttered.
“Like throwing knives?”
“Oh -- this?” He backed up towards the beam. “It’s just—you know…” He trailed off and started taking the knives down hurriedly.
She walked over to his workbench and inspected the surface with interest. It was covered with tools, hardware, scraps of wood and various projects in progress.
She touched an unfinished birdhouse, the one he was making for Esther. She said casually, “I didn’t see you at the harvest festival last week.”
“I – uh—I had----“
“You had things to do. I know.” Her voice was wry. “When do you ever not have things to do?”
Magnus struggled to come up with a suitable reply.
She sighed. “You don’t have to answer that one. I’m hoping that you won’t have much of anything to do next Saturday. It’s my father’s birthday, and I’m inviting Henry, Esther and you to come to the party I’m planning for him.” She paused. “Will you come?”
“I-- don’t know.”
“At any rate, you might not have a say in the matter. Esther says you’re going, and I understand that whatever Esther says, you do.” It was true enough--- there was nothing that Magnus wouldn’t do for Esther. He nodded dumbly.
“Good. It’s to be a masque, so come in costume.” Her eyes wandered to the knives in his hands. “If you need ideas for your costume, I suggest you come as a pirate. I can see you as a pirate.”
Magnus was helplessly confused. “Pirate?”
“You know, pirates from Old Earth legends.” She studied him. He wore a loose white shirt, open at the collar to reveal the base of a strong bronzed neck, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and shirt-tails tucked carelessly into rough brown breeches. “Something like you’re wearing now, except wear a black mask and a scarf over your hair. Yes, I think that will be perfect for you.”
Then, inexplicably, she blushed. With a curt nod, she turned and walked out of the barn.
Magnus stood speechless for several moments after she had gone, then he groaned and rested his forehead on the beam.
So far, he had never held anything resembling an intelligent conversation with Sara DeCorvier. The best he had been able to accomplish was actually complete silence on his part. At least, when he didn’t talk, he didn’t sound like a stammering idiot.
~~~~~~~
Cincinnatus was considered the galactic capital of one of humanity’s oldest vices—gambling.
Enormous casinos and hotels, along with hundreds of restaurants, night clubs, dinner theaters, and betting arenas of all sorts formed a glittering, garish cityscape on Hesperus Harbor. Dominating the skyline was a gigantic white, metallic arch that served as the city’s welcoming gate, illuminated from the ground at night with a dozen gigantic, powerful floodlights. It was also the tallest structure in Cincinnatus, soaring a dizzying two miles high. From the observation platform at the top, tourists can see in the distance the giant mountains of Theroux’s famous Cadalso Range.
Billions of galactic dollars flowed through the city, and despite the rash of recent robberies, business remained brisk. In Cincinnatus, nothing was too small, too big, too sacred, or too trivial to place a bet on.
In a room tucked away in the upper levels of Le Paradis Hotel of Cincinnatus, a conclave was taking place.
In the room were eleven men, sitting or standing in groups of twos or threes, talking in low voices. There was a general air of waiting in a relaxed, casual manner.
When the door opened, all attention was directed toward the newcomer who entered.
He was a tall, blond-haired man, with an elegance of manner and dress that might have made him foppish if not for the quiet self-assurance in his bearing. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “I had to take the usual precautions.” He sat down in one of the armchairs.
“Well, you certainly chose a first-rate meeting point this time,” Alan Gifford, Thalian Army special commando, commented approvingly, as he handed the newcomer a steaming cup of coffeee. “Very nice.”
“Thank you,” Richard Miller said modestly. “I do my best.”
“I suppose we should enjoy it while it lasts,” Thomas Snowden, of the Alegrian President’s Special Guard, said sourly. “It probably won’t. Last, I mean.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Wan Xi Zeng said wryly. Like Preston, he was a free agent. He was also Preston’s peer.
“All right, Lee,” Miller went on, unperturbed. “Ten days ago, you told me two weeks. Can we do it?”
Jung Lee, special tactician for Celadon’s Army Special Forces, gestured to Pol Kominsky, computer engineer for the Otrurian government-sponsored Seymour Industries. Kominsky switched on the computer which sat on a table in the middle of the room. Instantly, a three-dimensional holographic map of the underground system of sewers and pipelines under Cincinnatus jumped up on the table. He punched a button and the image started rotating so that all in the room can see from every angle.
“Murillo and Murasaki thoroughly mapped the underground complex for the past week, as you can see here,” Lee said. “The route in blue seems to get the most traffic. This one in red leads to a series of caverns where they set up shop. Weapons are stored here. Their shipment of drugs come in through here in a direct tunnel from the space terminal and meets the main tunnel to the cavern. Here you can see the vehicles they use--- boats on the sewer canal, and zippers through the pipeline tunnels.”
“Zippers?” It was Ivan Argelander, captain in the Itzvanian Navy Elite Forces.
“Small, very fast antigrav scooters. You’re more familiar with them as the velocipedes that many armies use. The leader’s sanctum is here. There is only one entrance to the caverns—here. It’s heavily guarded.” He paused. “Four days, gentlemen. That’s how long I give it.”
“Four days?” muttered Umberto Pretorius, accountant for one of Erlandia’s biggest firms. “Hell, let’s do it tomorrow. I’ve got a wife and three kids waiting for me.”
“I calculate two days for setting up, one for dry runs, and one for the actual operation,” Lee said. “There are over five hundred gang members in these tunnels at any given time. Do you want to go home in one piece to your wife and kids?”
“Five hundred?” said Pretorious. “There are twelve of us here. So what’s the problem?”
“There’ll be twenty-six of us,” corrected Miller. “The rest will be arriving over the next few days.”
“All right, twenty-six of us against five hundred street thugs. Even better. I don’t see how we can lose.”
“You’ve forgotten Warfare 101, haven’t you?” said Christian Torvo, amused. He was a top marksmanship instructor and weapons expert for the army’s covert special operations unit in Arion. “The part where you don’t underestimate your enemies?”
“That’s why we spent a week infiltrating the gang,” Ito Murasaki said briskly. He was a field intelligence and communications expert for Galactic Interpol. “I’d say they’re a bit more than street thugs—some of them, anyway. Especially the guards around the leader, Bartorio. Some of them are ex- army commandos. He’s even got a few from Japonais mafia—I recognized their look. A scary bunch.”
“And you’re sure they have ties to our objectives?” asked Argelander.
“Undoubtedly,” Murillo said. He was a top officer in the special police forces of Halifax. “The word on the street is that he’s no longer the big enchilada in Cincinnatus. He’s taking orders from some one, that’s clear enough.”
Gifford leaned forward. “It seems Bartorio is running a little scared of our boys.”
“Not just Bartorio,” Murasaki said. “The various lesser factions in Cincinnatus are definitely spooked.”
“If this happens often enough, we might as well put a big commercial on the infonet advertising our existence,” Pretorius muttered.
“It might come to that,” Preston said dryly. “For the past three hundred years or so, word has been seeping into public consciousness on some planets about a ‘secret order of warriors,’ especially as more and more individual clerics mingle with society. It can’t be helped.” He paused for emphasis. “Valentinian had successfully made certain inquiries back on Earth. This should tell us that we may no longer be as obscure as we would wish.”
“For my part, I see it as another step in the evolution of the Grammaton,” Miller said. “We all know there will be those who will fear and hate us, and when something like this happens, I don’t blame them. So the Grammaton order either adapts, or it dies.”
“I foresee complications,” murmured Preston.
“We deal with the complications when they come, as we always have.”
“The solution is to get a desk job, Preston,” suggested Pretorius, half serious, half joking. “You too, Zeng. Works for me.”
“I like my freedom too much,” Zeng said, grinning.
“Yes, that’s what I said before I met my wife,” Pretorius said. “Just wait until it happens to you.”
“I don’t even know why you came, man,” Murillo said. “You’ve turned into a flabby civilian.”
“Who’re you calling a civvie?”
The joking banter went on for a few more minutes, then Miller called their attention back to another image that had popped up on the table. It was a street map of Cincinnatus.
“After today, we’ll have to split up to different parts of the city,” Lee went on. “It’s still uncertain how long our primary mission will take, so we’ve leased each of you your own apartments. I don’t have to tell you to take precautions—avoid mingling with others, keep a low profile, blend in with the scenery.” Points of light blinked all over the map. “These are the locations of your new living quarters – Kominsky has uploaded them to your PCC’s. Only Senator Miller here will be staying in this hotel, of course.”
“Senator’s prerogative,” Miller explained. “It’s tough enough to have to keep up appearances. After all, I’m supposed to be on vacation.”
“Yeah, right,” Pretorius said. “I don’t think I’d be able to stand it.”
Lee indicated a point on the map next to the docks on Hesperus Harbor. “Our headquarters will be an abandoned warehouse here. We picked this place because several sewer tunnels empty into the harbor through large drains-- here. Not a very popular tourist spot but a convenient entry point for us.”
“Lovely,” murmured Argelander. “I’m not sure if I brought enough cologne, though.”
“We’ll brief and prepare the others as they come,” Lee said. “For now, we’ll start with what we have.”
“Well, gentlemen, tomorrow we begin Operation Pest Control,” Miller said. “We’ll meet at the warehouse at 0500 sharp.”
~~~~~~~
The oldest section of Cincinnatus consisted of residences that had been built as far back as two hundred years ago, when the planet had been fully colonized. Enormous, graceful buildings set in bucolic gardens behind miles of fences and walls were typical of the dwellings owned by the wealthiest landowners.
Miles from the city’s center, Minister Maurice Duquesne’s cruiser touched down gently on a landing pad behind one of these residential buildings. On one side of the pad, other cruisers were parked, ready to be flown at a moment’s notice.
Guards that patrolled the areas around the building acknowledged Duquesne’s presence with nods of greeting but didn’t stop. Duquesne strode briskly from the cruiser and into one of the ornate entrances at one side of the building, taking off his sunglasses as he entered the cool dimness of the interior.
His feet fell on polished marble floors as he made his way confidently down hallways hung with ancient tapestries and paintings. He paused in front of a particularly large tapestry, one that he had imported from another planet several years ago.
The colors of the tapestry were amazingly vibrant and life-like, well-preserved even after three centuries. But it wasn’t the colors that had fascinated Duquesne.
The tapestry depicted a battle in the planet’s past. In one part of the violent panorama, a warrior of some sort, dressed in black, was in a lunging position, each hand brandishing a sword. Surrounding him were the ten dead bodies of the opponents he had vanquished.
Duquesne’s gaze shifted to another section of the tapestry. Forming a circle with their backs to each other, nine warriors in black were in similar postures, but with a gun in each hand. The explosions from their guns were perfectly captured on the tapestry, and they seemed to have brought down a good deal of the enemy around them.
Since he had been a boy, Duquesne had been obsessed with the legend of the ten warriors who came and helped defeat the enemies of Franz the Third. He had studied every aspect of that war, and the battle in the tapestry in particular.
The story went that the ten warriors alone had killed almost a thousand during the course of the battle. As he grew, Duquesne came to believe that the story had been so embellished with each retelling that the number of casualties grew until it became ridiculous.
He turned and continued down the hallway and opened the double doors to one of the large chambers that served as a formal sitting room.
The seven men who were in the chamber turned to look at him as he entered. Not for the first time since he had met them, a chill went down his spine.
“Minister Duquesne.”
One of them came forward with outstretched hand. He was tall and powerfully but leanly built, exuding an animal grace that had reminded Duquesne of a lion he had once seen in an animal reserve. Like the lion, this man also had a mane of long, brown hair, tied back from his face.
The face was arresting, not so much for the handsomeness of the bold features, but for the cold, hard light that emanated from his eyes and the set of his mouth which one might have called cruel.
They shook hands. “Mr. Stuart. I’m glad to see that you’re all up.”
Eyebrows lifted. “Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”
Duquesne looked around him pointedly. The chamber had a general air of disorder about it. There were empty bottles of wine and other liquor littering the floor, as well as platters of half-eaten food on tables. He thought he even spied a pair of high-heeled women’s shoes in the corner.
“I understand that you had a rather large party here last night,” Duquesne said. He raised both hands. “Not that I object. It’s good to see someone finally making good use of my wine cellars.”
“I’m glad you don’t begrudge us our little fun,” Stuart said smoothly. “Especially since the last job we did for you went very well, if I do say so myself.”
“I have to agree with you, Mr. Stuart.” Duquesne sat down in one of the chairs, all seven pairs of eyes on him. As a politician, he had always been good at hiding his emotions, and he hid them well now. There was no getting around it--- these men made him very nervous indeed.
Especially Gareth Stuart.
“But I have to admit that we’ve been very well compensated so far.” Stuart sat down across from him, leaned back comfortably and looked around. “The best of accommodations with unlimited entertainment, along with your generous fees. We can’t complain.”
“Only the best for the best,” Duquesne said. “And speaking of parties, I may have one for you to attend.”
“Ah. You have something for us to do?”
“It concerns my opponent in the upcoming election, David Smith.”
“We can take care of him for you, if that’s what you want,” Stuart said casually.
“Oh, I’m sure you can. But at this point I don’t think there’s any need to. Let’s say the – ah—demise of my previous opponent precludes me from repeating an act that will raise suspicions.”
“Does it matter?” Stuart said curiously. “We’ve got half the police in our pocket. You play cards with the chief of police and the chief magistrate on Friday nights. And you own the media.”
“I thought it didn’t matter,” Duquesne shrugged. “Until the polls came out. I’m reminded that I have some very powerful enemies.”
“So.” Stuart leaned forward. “What do you want us to do?”
[/FONT]
|
|
|
Post by Libby on Nov 9, 2005 6:08:36 GMT -5
I've held off commenting on this until I could get more of a handle on it.
Like Judas, I was a bit confused at the transposition of characters to a different world etc and at first couldn't see where the story was heading.
It is all quite intriguing and clever. You have a good sense of character development and a smooth style. I like the dialogue. Very interested to see what's going to unfold...
|
|
|
Post by Witcher Wolf on Nov 9, 2005 7:38:06 GMT -5
*slow claps* Libby said it best
|
|