Last of the Immortals (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 3) (7 page)

Sykes was inspected and sniffed. The cat suffered to be scratched with a low rumbling purr for a few seconds, before she suddenly scampered off.

Kitties.

When he stood up, the shop–keeper had appeared as well.

In late–night videos, the merchant in a place like this was always played by a middle–aged male actor with a penchant for seediness. Usually pudgy and bald as well. Today was a welcome change.

A woman had appeared behind the waist–high counter. Sykes was about average height for a man these days, bland and entirely unmemorable of appearance, as was a useful necessity in this line of work.

This woman looked him in the eye.

She was rail thin and tall, with skin the color of his first morning mocha and black, curly hair that had been buzzed with the shortest trimmer setting possible, leaving just enough to hint at how rich it might be if she let it get longer.

The face was merely average, which was a let–down, given the intelligent twinkle in her eyes as she greeted him.

“Good day, sir,” she said in a low alto voice. “What brings you to
Ballard
?”

He studied her for a jarred moment, sure that no part of his disguise had given him away. And yet…

She smiled at his quiet confusion.

“Books are a small family,” she continued merrily. “There are only so many bibliophiles around, and all of them are regulars in my shop. Ergo, traveler from off–world.”

Sykes smiled back. Of course, a careful observer would take note of such things. And the signs had all been correct, according to Imperial Intelligence.

He flexed his hands to relax and looked carefully at the woman.

“I was hoping you might have something about the ancient Greeks of the Homeworld. Specifically, I am interested in the woman Clytemnestra. Would you have a modern translation of the
Oresteia
?”

For a moment, her eyes got hooded and reserved, although the smile never wavered.

Probably the last person she had expected to have walk into her shop this morning. Better and better.

“If I don’t…” she said carefully. She casually moved sideways a step, closer to the counter. To an average person, it probably would have looked normal as her hand disappeared from sight. “…I’m sure I can locate something. What language would you be looking for?”

Sykes was sure her hand had just caressed something interesting. Whether it was an alarm button or a weapon remained to be seen.

Seven major trade tongues had been dominant, before the fall of humanity.
Ballard
was primarily bi–lingual in English and Kiswahili, a result of the refounding, even though Bulgarian was generally dominant in the
Republic of Aquitaine
and the
Fribourg Empire
.

Sykes relaxed another notch. She knew the code sequence necessary for identifying complete strangers that needed to be friends.

“I had my heart set on Kiswahili,” he replied, volleying the identification set back to her. “And I will be in town for some time, so it is not an emergency.”

He watched her hand emerge from under the counter again. If this was a trap, she might just shoot him right here and his mission would be over.

Instead, the hand was empty. She smiled lightly.

“If you would like to wait, I can make some tea,” she replied, finally completing contact, “or you can leave your contact information and I will call when I know more.”

Sykes pulled a calling card from an inside pocket and crossed the distance to stand before the counter. He quickly pulled a pen from a jar and scrawled a note on the back.

“I’m staying at the Stellar Dolphin,” he said, all business now, “although I have not checked in yet. Please feel free to contact me there at any time when you have news.”

She picked up the card and read it carefully, front and back.

“Very good, Mr. Sykes,” she replied. “I’m sure I will be able to help you.”

“Thank you,” he said, turning and exiting the shop quickly.

He spent the next hour wandering the Kasbah, shopping randomly and buying occasional trinkets he would take with him or leave behind, depending on how the next few weeks went. It was important to be invisible by being exactly what he seemed, a semi–wealthy tourist on a tame little adventure.

Nothing to arouse suspicion.

Ξ

The hotel staff was as obsequious and fawning as the hotel’s reputation promised. Not for him to be in a youth hostel on this mission. No, wealthy enough to stay well and be treated right, not so wealthy as to be memorable.

Always in character.

The concierge approached diffidently as Sykes stood in the Grand Foyer and marveled at the lustrous marble walls and floors, covered with mosaics and tapestries celebrating the oceans of
Ballard
.

“Mr. Sykes?” the man asked.

He turned and smiled vacuously. “Yes?”

The concierge handed him a small envelope that appeared to have been hand–made from a very heavy linen paper.

“A Miss Krystiana Lemieux left you a message that she had found your book and would you be available to discuss it over dinner, sir?”

“Very good,” Sykes said, slipping the envelope into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a twenty Lev note to hand to the man. Again, enough to guarantee good service, not so much as to stick in the man’s mind. “Thank you.”

Upstairs in his room, Sykes inspected the note. There was nothing more to it, except a phone number to call, once he was settled. Her voice was breathy when she answered.

“Hello?” she said.

“Mistress Lemieux, this is Mister Sykes, returning your call,” he replied. They had passed the stage where everything was of necessity choreographed, so he was free to let the conversation wander where it will. “I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to take you out to dinner to discuss the tome you have located, but I am unfamiliar with Ithome. Perhaps you could recommend a restaurant where we might dine. On me. I have a very nice budget for this quest.”

“In that case,” she replied, suddenly much brighter, “let me call in a favor and get us reservations at McClaren’s, atop the Sandy Head Tower. Will eight o’clock work for you?”

“That would be perfect, madam. I look forward to dinner.”

Step one complete.

Sykes glanced out the window at the southern sky.
Alexandria Station
was just about to pass below the horizon.

You’re next.

Chapter IX

Date of the Republic May 30, 394 Ladaux

The office was small, and completely devoid of character. Just a desk with a hard chair, two slightly more comfortable chairs in front, and a side–board with nothing on it. No art marred the walls, no decoration, nothing.

Loncar assumed that Brand had requisitioned the room at some point, but had obviously left no personal touch. No fingerprints. And Brand had been a fixture among the fixers of the senate, the men and women in the shadows who smoothed the surface, for decades.

Nothing the man did left any impressions on anyone, except for his shaved head. That was Brand’s only affectation.

“Thank you for joining me, First Fleet Lord,” he began. “This won’t take long, and then we can return to our respective needs.”

Loncar sat in the nearer chair. Brand wouldn’t offer anything to drink. These meetings never lasted. Only the strategy dinners that Loncar hosted in a private room at his clubs ran long enough.

“Go on,” Loncar said, a low rumbling sound almost a growl. Keller had still left him unsettled.

Brand opened a drawer in the desk and withdrew a small folder. It had the crimson cover of a fleet intelligence summary, such as the First Lord’s office regularly produced for the politicians, and it was sealed with a white ribbon, as was custom when the document was in public.

He rested it on the desk without opening it and placed a proprietary hand on the cover.

“This just came in from my sources this morning,” Brand began. “Jessica Keller is currently en route to the
Ballard
system for an expected engagement with Emmerich Wachturm of the
Fribourg
Empire
Navy.”

“
Ballard
?” Loncar asked, fuzzy on his cartography. It was an older sector of the Republic where he rarely visited. “College, or something?”

“Correct,” Brand answered. “The
University of Ballard
is famous for its pre–hiatus library. According to the report I have skimmed, Keller apparently said or did something to provoke Wachturm and the
Fribourg Empire
into launching an assault on the university, and the First Lord dispatched her to stop him.”

“Blackbird?” Loncar asked.

“I beg your pardon, First Fleet Lord?”

“Wachturm, you said,” he replied. “Does he have the Blackbird with him?
IFV Amsel
?”

“Ah,” Brand smiled tightly. “Of course. Yes sir, he does. The battleship
Amsel
and the ship’s usual compliment of escorts are expected to accompany it.”

“Hmph. Keller take anything besides the squadron she left with yesterday?”

“No,” Brand replied with a slight, evil smile. “Just
Auberon
,
Stralsund
, and the two destroyers. Plus the escort and whatever forces are at
Ballard
when they arrive.”

“Then it will be a slaughter,” Loncar concluded. “Wait. You said Keller provoked it? How?”

“Apparently she encountered Wachturm during her diplomatic mission to
Lincolnshire
and insulted the man,” Brand said with a triumphant tone. “We have not completed digesting Keller’s own briefing report of her mission. It lasted nearly a year, and fills several volumes of material.”

“Not hard to believe,” Loncar agreed, mentally elsewhere. “The woman is a menace.”

He shifted gears mentally and studied the bald man behind the desk.

“Why am I here?”

Brand smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, for all that the man went out of his way to cultivate suave. He was the kind of person who thought about knives in the dark too much for polite company.

“The Committee would like to call you as a friendly witness, a character witness,” Brand said. “An expert on fleet affairs who can shed light on the recent activities of Keller and First Lord Kasum. And do so in a very public forum.”

Loncar considered the implications of Brand’s words. The committee. The Senate
Select Committee for the Fleet of the Republic of Aquitaine
. The civilian control of the fleet, and by extension, much of the Republic itself.

He had heard rumors, mostly from Senator Tomčič. He and Andjela had been comrades–in–arms for a long time. The Premier himself, in a towering rage, threatening the entire committee behind closed doors. With Kasum watching his back and their embarrassment. Over Keller. Not something discussed over dinner, except in hushed tones.

The urge for revenge on those two men would be great.

“When?”

“The sooner we can strike,” Brand replied, “the better it will be. This information will leak eventually. If we can leak it first, we can control the news with it. Could you be ready to give your testimony in seven days?”

“Why wait that long?”

“It takes time to assassinate a man in the court of public opinion, First Fleet Lord. Especially men as popular as the Premier and the First Lord. Events are already moving, but not that quickly. We needed you on board before we sprang.”

“I see,” Loncar purred, implications and aspirations overtaking him.
First Lord Loncar
. Yes, that would be just the proper due to a man who had spent his entire career laboring in the shadow of his lessers. Finally, he could get the appreciation long denied him by Horvat and Kasum.

Finally.

“Yes, Brand,” he said. “That would be perfect.”

Chapter X

Date of the Republic June 10, 394 Edge of Jumpspace, Ballard System

CR–264 so rarely got to do this.

Tomas Kigali had taken days to plot the specifics of this maneuver, working closely with all the other crazy people on his staff. There had been a lot of giggling.

After all, if you were going to drop a great big brick in a really small swimming pool, you might as well go all in with it.

Normally starships, even warships, came out of Jumpspace at a respectable distance from the edge of the gravity well. It wasn’t like there was a boundary marker sitting there. And the edge of a gravity well was a squishy thing to begin with, being more of a broad zone painted on a map with a brush than cut with a razor. But still…

And they certainly came out at a reasonable speed. That was just prudent navigation. Space might be huge and vast and almost empty, but there was usually no reason to push your luck.

Unless you were in a hurry. Or trying to set a new record.

After all, the chances of someone actually being close enough to be a navigational risk were astronomically low. Even when dealing with astronomical scales of things.

CR–264
was running down the edge of the gravity well like a boar on an icy hill. Kigali had shut off all the warning buzzers. They were just getting annoying at this point, telling him he shouldn’t be doing exactly what he had planned.

At some point, the JumpSails would finally cry “Enough” and kick him back into real space. They would probably need a full recalibration at that point, but he was confident his staff could hold the matrix together at least enough to get half a light–year away, if they managed to end up landing in the middle of the Red Admiral’s fleet, firing into the remains of the orbital station. They had that planned as a backup.

There
.

Half the nav board went red as the matrix popped, like a soap bubble on a child’s finger.

CR–264
was back into realspace.

And now, the stupid part.

“Sensors, go wide,” he called into the comm. “I don’t care who they are, I just want to make sure we don’t hit them at this speed.”