Jack allowed himself a moment to admire the handsome man in the mirror. It was the first time since his promotion that he’d worn his full dress uniform, and the second silver bar on each shoulder certainly added to the bling. The pilot’s wings over his left breast would always be the most important, but he had to admit that the trio of medals just below added an impressive dash of color.
The Colonial Uprising Medal had been renamed the Colonial War Medal. Pretty much everybody had one these days, but not everyone had four combat bars clasped to it. Next to it were the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal, each awarded for actions performed in the cockpit and deemed particularly dangerous, heroic, or important.
The wound stripe on his left wrist caught his eye, and he brushed his fingers over the gold braid. With his face rebuilt and his body healed, this little gold stripe on his uniform was his only remnant of the true horror of war. The only visible one, at least. He’d been banged up enough times now not to obsess over a particular injury, but he still sometimes had nightmares, and he still hated Sirians. Way deep down, he hated every last one of them.
He looked at the wound stripe for a long moment, reminding himself that it was for this that he had joined Special Forces. To join Korolev’s plan to stop the war, and to stop other young people from getting stripes—and nightmares, and prejudices— of their own.
The door opened behind him and he turned to face his new Special Forces mentor and partner. Often he wasn’t sure if it was fondness or fear that made his heart beat faster when she was around, but either way she had his full attention.
Katja’s appearance was striking in how little she actually looked like herself. Her hair was black and hung perfectly straight to the middle of her back, and her pale skin had been tanned to a deep olive. The change was so dramatic that her large, dark eyes—normally so prominent a feature—blended perfectly into the overall look. What Jack noticed most, however, was that those eyes were now level with his as she glided across the room to face him.
“What are you wearing?” he said, looking at the conservative gown which flowed down her slender body to brush the floor. “Stilts?”
“Killer heels,” she said with a smirk, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal stylish platform boots.
“Are you hiding a hover tank in each shoe?”
“Not quite,” she said, and she laughed, “but they do have some mobility augmentations that I want to try out. Some Centauri spies we’ve gone up against have had augments, and we need to keep pace.”
“Sounds like we’re kitted out for the trenches,” he said. “I thought this was just an exercise.” He glanced at his own uniform, feeling the extra weight of the body armor. That plus the visual implants were quite enough for him.
“No Special Forces mission is ever pretend. We’re really on the job today, but we don’t expect anything to go wrong, so it’s more a chance for you to get comfortable with your gear and use it without attracting attention.”
There had been something odd about her voice since she’d arrived, and it was her use of the word “without” which finally clued him in.
“Why are you talking with a Canadian accent?”
“Because Finnish accents tend to stand out in this part of Earth,” she replied with a glint in her eye, “and today my job is to blend in. I’ve been listening to you jabber on for the last few weeks and I think I have it down. Wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s weird, but yeah, it sounds pretty normal.”
“Well, let’s go. It’s time to get out and about.”
“We don’t say that,” he sighed.
“Don’t say what, eh?”
“I mean it.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Misusing the local slang is the fastest way to get caught out—and that sounds just painful.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s more like it—very natural.”
She faced him, smoothing his tunic. Her eyes were bright—but with affection for him or anticipation of a mission? He couldn’t tell. Watching her chameleon skills in full force, coupled with his certain knowledge of the terrifying power that hid beneath that gown, kept his emotions firmly on the side of fear. This was a very dangerous person. Hopefully the woman who’d once been his friend was still in there, too.
“How did you get your skin so dark?” he asked.
“A sophisticated, tactical material applied manually.”
“What?”
“Make-up.” She reached into her bag and showed him a small container. “It’s actually really good—rubs right into the skin for longer wear and a natural texture. Too much sweat can stain it, though, so I always carry a touch-up supply.”
He nodded, wondering if he’d ever be called upon to become a chameleon.
“You comfortable with your role?” she asked.
“Stand on the stage and look pretty.”
“And…?” Her eyes iced over.
“Act as close defense to the VIPs, in case of an incident. I have this”—he patted the ornate leather pouch attached to his ceremonial white belt—“for shielding… and this”—he patted his holster—“for engaging targets.” He tapped the hard surface beneath his uniform and then gestured at his eyes. “I’m capable of taking hits, and I can see the invisible.”
“Good,” she said, and it sounded as if she meant it. “That’s the extreme situation. Now what will you really be doing this afternoon?”
“Monitoring all transmissions in the area, and looking for any unusual patterns.”
<Are you comfortable speaking this way?>
<Yes.>
<I’ll be coming and going on the stage, carrying the awards, so we’ll be close enough to do this the whole time.>
<Easy.>
She took his arm and led him toward the door. Her new height really was alarming, but he couldn’t help but notice the way her gown flowed down over her breasts. Fear and lust, he thought to himself. It was a deadly combination.
* * *
The State limousine delivered them to the university at precisely quarter to the hour. Media were already lined up along the driveway, and Breeze remained comfortably in her seat as the security team opened the door from outside and her husband stepped out into the maelstrom.
Their PR team had done an excellent job, she thought, at making sure Vijay’s name kept popping up in the news, often enough to be remembered and always connected to something positive. It wasn’t enough to steal the limelight from the President or the senior members of the government, but it was having a slow, steady impact.
As planned, Vijay smiled and spoke to the media only briefly before bending slightly and gesturing to her. She slid across and took his hand, stepping out onto the pavement, turning her most dazzling smile toward the cameras. Then she looked to her husband with an expression of deep affection. Images were captured of the earnest, long-serving Minister of Natural Resources and his beautiful, war-veteran bride. If there was a better tale of humble success, Breeze couldn’t think of it.
She cast her gaze upward at the gorgeous facade of the university’s main building, red brick covered in ivy and sporting white pillars. Similar buildings formed a wide square around the main driveway, with leafy parks snaking through the open spaces that lay between. On Vijay’s arm she was escorted through the front doors and into a towering foyer teeming with excited young graduates and their families.
As a VIP Vijay could certainly have requested to slip into the ceremonies through a private entrance, but this mingling with the crowd would further his growing reputation as a man of the people. He wasn’t such a household name that people instantly recognized him, but Breeze noticed with satisfaction the large number of curious stares as their little entourage casually made their way through the foyer. If those students and their families didn’t yet know who Vijay Shah was, they certainly would by the end of the ceremony.
The auditorium was already starting to fill up, the broad chamber rumbling with the excited hubbub of the guests. Breeze followed Vijay up onto the stage and took her assigned seat near the podium. As one of the scheduled speakers, he was quickly briefed by the university’s technical staff, and Breeze had a moment to glance around the room.
The ceremony today was the graduation for students in a special interplanetary geology program, and Breeze idly tried to identify members of the audience based on their fashions. Amid the huge range of outfits, it was still quite easy to spot the cultural influences of each region of Terra.
The most preening were undoubtedly the Jovians. Next she could spot three different kinds of understatement—the severe sleekness of the Mercurians, the efficient practicality of the Martians, and the cold minimalism of the Tritonians. The Earthlings showed the most skin, and the Loonies—no, she chided herself, the Lunar Citizens—wore the most make-up.
Her own choice of outfit was quite conservative by Earthly standards, as befitting the wife of a minister, but the braided fabric of her sleeves revealed enough bare skin to titillate a Mercurian. The Jovians would dismiss her as frumpy no matter what she wore, so for them she just had to rely on her brilliant smile.
Vijay, she noticed, hadn’t yet sat down next to her. A new figure had arrived on stage and was chatting with him. She immediately recognized Christopher Sheridan, and found herself on her feet.
“Mr. Sheridan,” she said, extending her hand, “what a nice surprise.”
“Mrs. Shah,” he replied smoothly, kissing her hand. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at her husband. “Shall we expect the President, as well?” Under his easy laughter, she could see that Vijay was perturbed. His style of public speaking was low-key and dignified—and flat next to the charismatic charm of Sheridan.
“I’ve been a presenter at this graduation ceremony for years,” Sheridan said. “Perhaps you didn’t know, but I was a geologist before I took up public service.”
“I didn’t know,” she said, feigning interest. “Are you a graduate of this program?”
“No, but I helped to establish it when I was chair of the Martian Geological Society. This program,” he added with no small amount of pride, “was the first to provide students with field work on every inhabited world in Terra.”
“One to which the government provides generous funding,” Vijay added.
“And for that I’m grateful,” Sheridan said. “Today I’m happy to put aside any partisan politics, and just enjoy being in my professional field again.”
“What I’m looking forward to,” Vijay said, slapping Sheridan’s arm, “is hearing you bring that oratory power to discussing rocks. If anyone can bring glamor to our field, it’s you, Christopher.”
Sheridan laughed and nodded his thanks.
Aware that they were on stage and being watched by hundreds of people gathering in their seats, Breeze kept her smile firmly in place, hoping her attachment to Vijay would take some of the shine off Sheridan. This man was a threat, and she needed to figure out how to minimize him.
* * *
With a smile, Katja handed off the last tray of graduate scrolls to the other assistant. The younger woman had been quite excited at the idea of carrying the trays onto the stage during the ceremony, and thus getting so close to the limelight. Katja had been more than happy to stay back in the wings.
With both Christopher Sheridan and Charity Shah-née-Brisebois on the stage, she doubted even this disguise would have kept her anonymous. In her new life she rarely interacted with any citizen long enough to be remembered. Having two familiars in the same small space was awkward.
Jack had blended in perfectly with the two rows of special citizens seated on the stage as a backdrop to the main events. A mixture of uniforms, suits, and academic gowns made up the “heroes gallery” that had become standard for any major public event where State officials were in attendance. He’d been happily monitoring the waves of electronic communications that teemed forth from the audience, and his analysis of the social media patterns was quite entertaining—especially as he tracked the reactions to the Dean’s rather pompous speech.
<There’s a count going on for how many times he says “change.”>
Katja glanced out at the audience. A few polite faces were still turned up toward the speaker, but most eyes were down on their devices. One or two people had left their seats, and there was a quiet but unmistakable restlessness. If she’d been listening to the speech she’d probably be bored, too, but bored people got careless.
By habit, she scanned the room again.
<He’s starting to wrap it up,> Jack said. <There’s new optimism in the crowd.>
<Sheridan is up next,> she reminded him. <He was an assassination target barely a month ago, so stay sharp.>
<Roger.>
Even in the Cloud communications she sensed the shift in Jack’s tone, and with her eyes she saw him sit up slightly straighter and scan the room anew.
The Dean’s speech finally tumbled to a conclusion, amid enthusiastic applause. Katja listened vaguely as Christopher Sheridan was introduced—noting with interest the huge ovation he received—and she reached out again with her senses. There was nothing military she could detect.
<Any unusual movement?> she asked.
<No. Some media people are moving down the aisle to get closer, but the audience is still.>
In the backstage area all was quiet, so Katja stepped to the edge of the stage and casually glanced down at the reporters. Past experience made her suspicious of anyone with media augmentations. Switching to quantum-flux she scanned the six individuals who crouched near the apron. There were two head-mounted cameras that she interrogated immediately, and another optical device built into a pair of sunglasses. Nothing unusual. The other three reporters each held up tablet devices, and beyond a direct data stream feeding up to their network satellites there was nothing of note.
<The media look clear,> she said.
<Those sunglasses are pretty cool,> Jack replied. <Oh, looks like chickie has a problem.>
Katja watched as the sunglasses-wearing reporter stopped watching Sheridan and reached down into her bag. She appeared to be adjusting something when—
<What was that?>
Jack’s sudden alert froze Katja in position. She went to pure passive, listening for any sudden changes in the Cloud. There was a ripple through the audience, but she heard with her ears more than anything.
<What happened?> she asked, still frozen, eyes vaguely trained on the reporter with the sunglasses. The woman was reaching up to her glasses, and on either side the other reporters were all quickly studying their own cameras.
<An interruption,> Jack said. <Something just blanked all the devices.>
Sheridan continued speaking, unaware of the invisible interruption, but there was a distracted murmur from the crowd.
The reporter flicked her fingers toward the stage.
<Movement,> Jack reported. <Something very small just came at us from the audience.>
<Shield!>
Katja exploded into motion.
* * *
Jack fumbled at his belt, activating the local energy field. It crackled into life over most of the stage, a shimmer of light falling into a dome shape. Gasps erupted all around him, and Sheridan’s speech died away as the politician looked up at the shield.
Sudden movement to his left. He leapt to his feet, chair tumbling backward amid shouts from those around him. The movement was Katja, bounding across the stage and down onto the media cluster. Her tiny form crashed across three reporters and sent the entire group scrambling. Beyond the glimmer of the shield, he saw audience members frozen in shock. There were a few shouts, and screams of fear.
The reporters were inside the shield! He ripped the leather pouch from his belt and tossed it down on the stage behind him. The shield shifted obediently with its projector. Jack lunged forward, grabbing Sheridan’s arm and pulling him back.
“Sir, get down!”
Sheridan ducked immediately and retreated toward the chairs. Jack gestured to the other veterans and VIPs.
“Make a ring around Sheridan,” he ordered. Then he spun around and scanned the rest of the stage. Katja had pulled her weapon from her purse and was training it on all six of the prone reporters. Someone to his left was down. He scrambled over.
It was Vijay Shah. The minister had slumped out of his chair and sat collapsed on the stage, his face frozen in shock and one hand on his chest. Jack checked for breathing: none. He checked for blood: none. He checked for pulse: none.
“Medic!” he shouted.
Shah’s dark face had paled, his open eyes staring dully at nothing. Jack lifted the unresponsive hand from the chest, looking for any sort of wound. He pushed aside the fine wool of the suit jacket, and against the thin cotton of the shirt he saw a speck of blood. Tearing open the shirt he saw a matching red spot in Shah’s chest, right over the heart.
“What’s wrong with him?” He heard a female voice in his ear.
“Some kind of projectile,” he said. “I need a medic.”
The woman repeated his call for help then leaned in again.
“Can we move him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Jack did a quick check for any head injury, then slid his hands down Shah’s neck to feel for any unusual bumps. Nothing seemed to be broken. “Here, help me get him down on his back.”
Together they eased Shah’s limp form to the floor.
“Do you know CPR?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, pushing him aside.
He climbed to his feet again and did another quick survey. Sheridan was crouched behind the chairs, the veterans facing outward in a defiant ring around him while the other VIPs cowered. Shah was mostly surrounded by his official security detail and Jack saw one of them approaching with a medikit. The woman—it was Breeze, he realized—still desperately conducted CPR.
Katja was on the floor below the stage, pistol pointed down at the sprawled reporters. Jack surveyed them, noting the various expressions of shock. He blinked slowly to activate his quantum-flux and carefully swept his gaze over them. Each one of them carried an array of electronic devices, and he could see the biofeed devices linking the brains of the two head-mounted cameramen with their equipment. Not true implants, then, but a common “hands-free” technique for controlling external appliances.
Then, in the reporter with the sunglasses camera, there was a flash of Cloud activity.
“You!” he barked, looming over her from the stage. “Who are you?”
Darkness consumed the auditorium as all the lights were extinguished. Amid the sea of screams Jack watched in his quantum-flux vision as the reporter ripped off her sunglasses, reached into her bag, and then flicked her fingers at him. Something tiny thudded against his chest, the force of the blow dispersed by his body armor.
<Sunglasses threat!> he babbled into the Cloud. <Take, take, take!>
Shots rang out in the blackness. Jack saw the quantum-flux form of the reporter stagger as Katja’s bullets struck home—but the woman didn’t fall. From her crouch she sprang into flight, colliding with Katja and sending them both tumbling to the floor.
<Protect the prize,> he heard Katja say, even as the two combatants scrambled to their feet.
Jack drew his pistol and stepped back toward the fallen form of Shah, spotting Sheridan still crouched behind the human shield. He was suddenly glad of the darkness, as no one could see how his hand was shaking.
Katja lashed out with a jab, clipping the enemy’s ear. The target was inhumanly fast, and Katja desperately blocked another barrage of fist strikes. Fighting in quantum-flux made distances hard to judge, but she already feared that this fighting disadvantage was the only thing keeping her alive.
Her pistol was somewhere in the darkness, knocked clear by the thundering impact as her attacker had slammed them both to the floor. Katja had managed to get herself between the enemy and the nearest escape route, however, and they squared off again.
Ignoring the screaming around her, she blocked another strike at her face, but grunted as a blow cracked against her ribs, the force only partially deflected by her armor. She backed up two steps, then launched a front kick with her augmented boots. Her attacker’s gasp of pain made the impact sweeter, but the triumph was short-lived. The opponent charged forward again, literally flying as both knees smacked against Katja’s blocks. A crushing blow came down on Katja’s head and she staggered backward, dodging left to avoid another strike from above.
Her right hand was in close and she grabbed desperately at fabric, then felt her fingers against the soft skin of a throat. She squeezed with all her strength, grabbing the back of the neck with her left hand and pulling herself tight against her opponent. In the haze of flux-lit darkness she could almost make out facial features, could see the gasping expression as she tightened her choke hold.
<Surrender!> she blasted out into the Cloud.
A forearm smashed up against her wrist like a steel pipe, but she kept her grip on the throat.
<Surrender!> she repeated.
The attacker’s legs left the ground and swung around her torso like pythons. Her own legs buckled under the sudden weight of two bodies and she toppled forward, slamming down on her enemy even as they both tightened their holds. Katja felt her body armor buckling under the strain, felt her insides burn, but still she throttled.
<I’m going to kill you,> came the reply.
In that moment, with the Cloud conduit open between their minds, Katja suddenly confirmed with whom she grappled. Valeria Moretti’s mind burned with images of a blasted street. Houses torched and half-collapsed. Bodies of children being pulled from the wreckage. Not just any children—her children. A son and a daughter. Marco and Roberta. Their broken bodies laid on stretchers, tortured expressions burned into her memory before they were covered by blankets.
Katja felt a rage smash into her, a burning fire of vengeance like she’d never felt before. A mother’s children had been killed— innocent victims in a pointless battle. She recoiled from the tidal wave of emotion, screaming inside at pain she’d never known could exist.
<You did this,> she heard.
A flurry of defenses welled up in her mind.
<I didn’t pull the trigger that killed them—I was doing my duty—I was under attack—you attacked us—this is your fault.> But none of her frantic arguments could overcome the single, fiery accusation that beat her down.
<You did this.>
Katja turned toward the assault, pushing back with her own rage.
<I did what I had to.>
Moretti’s thoughts dissolved into incoherence. Katja felt the constriction of her torso tighten, and she leaned into the choke hold with all her remaining strength. Moretti’s life energy pulsed in the quantum-flux, as civilian screams continued in the darkness around them.
Then, suddenly, the pressure on her body eased. Moretti’s feet pounded down on Katja’s thighs, knocking her over and shaking her grip. Moretti rolled, slamming Katja’s arms with impossible force. Katja was on her back, left arm numb and right arm knocking away a new barrage of strikes. She pulled in her legs and kicked with all the power of her boots.
* * *
Light poured into the auditorium once again, and Breeze blinked in shock. She still held the limp hand of her husband. The illumination revealed a series of packs laid out across Vijay’s chest, and the security guard who frantically operated them.
Vijay’s heart would start, but after only a few beats it would cease again. The mask over his face pushed oxygen into his lungs, but his body refused to respond. Aside from a single pinprick in his chest there was no sign of violence, but any ability to live seemed to have been stolen away.
“Is there an ambulance coming?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” another guard replied. “Two minutes away.”
“Come on, darling,” she whispered, squeezing his hand again.
Around her, the stage was under siege. She and Vijay were surrounded by security, and through the black legs she saw Sheridan protected by another ring of guards. The young veteran who had first helped her with Vijay was standing at the edge of the stage, pistol pointed down at a group of people lying on the floor.
Near the first exit from the auditorium, she saw a woman suddenly fly upward into the air. Another woman—one of the certificate carriers in her long, black gown—lay on her back, booted legs thrust upward. The first woman crashed down to the floor, but was on her feet again so fast Breeze blinked to clear her vision.
Then the exit door was open, and the woman was gone. The olive-skinned certificate carrier leapt to her feet and took off in pursuit.
Breeze looked again at her husband’s still form, watched it jerk as the guard attempted to start the heart yet again. She’d seen enough death in her military career to know that it was too late, that no amount of medical help could bring Vijay back. She slumped where she sat. Everything had happened so fast. A lightning courtship and a quick wedding, and the sudden promotion to minister. And now, just as fast, it was all over. Her husband was dead, and with it her political ambitions. There was no way she could pull off that trick a second time.
Tears trickled down her cheeks. She brushed them away, trying to hold back the surge of frustration and disappointment. This had been a terrible year, with one setback after another, and she was too young to just be put out to pasture.
There was a bony hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw the Dean gazing down at her sadly.
“He is a strong man,” he said quietly. “He’ll be all right.”
The old coot was offering her sympathy. It was the last thing she wanted right now. She dropped her eyes, wanting simply to disappear, then she felt something warm and soft drape over her shoulders. It was a blanket, and she noticed that a new team of medics had arrived, along with a troop of armored police officers who kept the audience in their seats while investigator drones began scanning the crowd.
Strong hands took her arms and she let them lift her to her feet.
“Mrs. Shah,” one of the security guards said with deep sadness in his eyes, “we need to get you to a safe place.”
They were still treating her like a VIP, she noticed absently. Like someone worth protecting. But she was just the new wife of a minister—why would she matter?
Because, she suddenly realized, their careful PR campaign had made her into someone who mattered. The shock of the moment suddenly vanished, and she saw the situation with new clarity. The medics worked on Vijay, there were guards all around, and there was an entire audience watching. She had performed CPR to try to save him, before staying loyally by his side when the first medics arrived.
Oh, this was gold.
“What about my husband?” she asked.
The guard hesitated, glancing down at the limp form.
“We’ll do our best, ma’am.”
She nodded solemnly, then allowed herself to be led away to safety.
Her mind was already racing. There was much to do.