––––––––
Three months later.
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“How has ending capital punishment worked out so far?” Spectre asked Emperor Daniel Markis the First as they shared a dinner table at the Shepparton Palace.
“Not so well, as you know,” Markis replied with a grimace. “The Antarctica prison facility is no picnic, but even so there’s been a spike in the number of incidents as the troublemakers are emboldened. Still, policy changes take time. I’m certain that eventually this will let some of the steam escape from the system. Once people see that violence doesn’t get them what they want, they’ll turn against the terrorists.”
“No doubt you are right. The media is being very friendly to you right now, and the common people are behind you.”
Markis snorted. “Of course they’re friendly. They’re all run by the state. One item on my long list of initiatives will be to allow private media outlets again, as well as to eliminate the sedition laws.”
“All fine ideas.” Spectre toyed with his fork, idly dangling a piece of fettuccini on it.
“But you don’t agree.”
“If I didn’t agree, I’d still be Emperor. But you don’t have the staff you once did.”
Markis sat back with a sigh. “I miss Cassie. She was in San Francisco when the Destroyers hit, with no access to a deep shelter. The coastal cities...”
“A shame. She was a woman to respect.”
“At least Millie is with me.”
Spectre grimaced. “I’d trade a thousand good administrative assistants for one devious mind like Cassandra Johnstone.”
“Nobody to compare among those you found here? Not even Blends?”
“Blends too often take cheap shortcuts, using their extended abilities instead of their brains. I was a dangerous man long before I began my road to this current state. I try never to forget that this,” he tapped his head, “this is the most effective five pounds of flesh in existence.”
“You’re doing superbly, running covert ops again.”
“Covert ops and intelligence are often related, but are not the same thing. I have ample personnel that can conduct operations. My grandniece Naomi, for example. I do have one candidate, though you might have trouble convincing him to work for you. Then again, you might not.”
Markis speared Spectre with his gaze. “You’re still intent on leaving?”
“Yes. I’m bored, and when I get bored, I become cruel and depraved. You really don’t want me when I’m plumbing those depths.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’m not certain yet. I’ll be sure to let you know when I decide.” Spectre took a sip of wine.
“Who’s this candidate for spymaster you have in mind?”
“The leader of the Skulls. Raven. Or Charles Denham, if you prefer.”
“Raven! He’s one of the people I need to rein in, not give more power.”
Spectre raised his eyebrows. “Would he have more power as your spymaster? Or as lord of the Skulls?”
Markis ran his hand along his jaw, lifting his chin in acknowledgement. “I take your point. It would be one step toward bringing him back into the fold by making him an insider.”
“And separating him from his personal army, which also needs to be curbed. But you need to replace the Skulls with something else. You need an organization that’s yours, not a former bandit gang grafted onto the new Empire of Earth, and you need to do it soon. Before I leave, I believe.”
“Because when you’re gone, people might think me weak. At that point I might not be able to do away with the Skulls. I’ll be dependent on them.”
“Yes.”
“But who would replace them?”
Spectre smiled. “Whom do you already have available? There’s no need to reinvent the wheel.”
“Everyone around me is a legacy of either your rule, the insurgency, or Meme rule.”
“Who’ve been steadfast throughout everything? Who’ve remained professional despite all the changes?”
Markis’ eyes turned upward. “EarthFleet. You want me to replace Skulls with Marines?”
“Not Marines...at least, not as an organization, though I have one particular Marine in mind. No, the part of the fleet that most closely resembles the Skulls in function, if not in temperament, is...”
“The Stewards! Of course! Do you think Absen will go for it?”
“He’ll do what you say. Marines can fill in for flag officer protection until more Stewards are trained and built. You know, I’ve acted as one from time to time...”
“I remember, Spooky. Spectre. Whatever. So you’ll take charge of transitioning the Skulls out and the Stewards in?”
“Of course. Call it one final challenge.”
***
“Not interested, Spooky,” Sergeant Major Jill Repeth said when she was summoned to Shepparton to meet with Spectre. “Call yourself what you like; you’re the same old snake in the garden.”
“Snakes have their places. They rid the grounds of vermin, allowing flowers and fruit to grow.”
“I’m not going to out-talk you and your fancy metaphors, so I’ll just say no again and be on my way.”
“You haven’t even heard my proposal.”
“Whatever it is, the answer is still no.”
“Perhaps someone else can persuade you.” Spectre opened an ornate door and gestured Jill to go through. With a sour glance, she did.
“Good to see you again, Jill,” Daniel Markis said as he rose from behind the grand desk he’d inherited.
Jill twirled her wheel cap on her fingers and gazed around at the overblown baroque decorations on walls and ceiling. The interior resembled nothing so much as an eighteenth-century French palace. “I’m too old and crusty to be impressed with crap like this, sir, and with all due respect, whatever job you want me for, I’m better off where I am.”
Markis waved a hand in embarrassment. “I’ll have the decor redone to simpler tastes when we can spare the money and labor. In the meantime, please hear me out.”
“For old times’ sake, sir, I’ll do that. But I’m not working for him.” Jill pointed at Spectre.
“He won’t get anywhere near you, Jill, I guarantee. This isn’t a covert ops position. In fact, I’m drowning in hardened killers that enjoy plying their trades a bit too enthusiastically for my taste. I need you as a guard dog, not a trained wolf.”
“Enough with the metaphors, for Pete’s sake. Can anyone in this palace speak plainly?”
Markis smiled wickedly. “Sure. I’ll say it another way. I have to throw out the Brownshirts without creating an SS or a Gestapo.”
Jill felt like she would explode, and almost did before the Chairman – the Emperor, she reminded herself – spoke.
“Sorry, I’ve been hanging out with the Spookster too much.”
In spite of herself, Jill laughed. “All right, sir. I’ll listen.”
“Shoo,” Markis said to Spectre. “And take them with you.” He jerked his head at the armed Skulls standing in discrete corners.
“Yes, my lord,” Spectre said with a show of sincerity Jill could hardly credit, and the men withdrew.
“I’m sure my office is bugged,” Markis sighed. “I only hope it’s by the right people. But that’s why I need you.”
“Looks like you have more than enough security.”
“Security doesn’t always make one safe.” Markis waved her to follow him out a set of glass double doors onto a terrace that overlooked elaborate gardens. He reached into his pocket, taking out what looked like a phone, pushed a couple of keys and then slipped it back into his jacket.
“Bug squasher?”
“Yup. Larry made it for me on the sly.”
“You don’t trust your own people?”
“The Skulls are Spectre’s, and once he’s gone, they owe their loyalty to Charles Denham, the man they call Raven. He’s just as dark as Spectre, but not as reasonable. I have to wonder how much power I’d really have if I had to rely on him too much.”
Jill licked her lips. “You want me to run a PSD for you?”
“Not only a personal security detachment. I’ve already spoken to Absen, and he’s approved an expansion of the Fleet Stewards. The common people know about them, recognize them and those blinding white uniforms. Hell, the masses watch adventure shows about them on the vids. There’s no one with a better reputation – unlike the Skulls, who started as heroes but lately have begun slipping into villainy.”
“Why me? You’ve got a whole planet to draw from. You can find someone better.”
“But none more trustworthy to me personally. This isn’t the good old days, where the Eden Plague bolstered the consciences of civilized people who were used to the power structures of representative republics. We’re back to the times of the Medici and the Borgia, of the intrigues of courts and kings, when personal loyalties trumped everything. Or we will be, if we let it get out of hand.” Markis turned to Jill, laying a palm on her elbow. “I need an iron fist in a velvet glove. I need you. Just for a while.”
Jill swallowed and turned away, putting her cap down on the stone railing and gazing out over the sweet-smelling flower bushes of the gardens. “I can’t really refuse, can I?”
“You can. I’m asking, not ordering. But the Stewards are going to replace the Skulls no matter what you do. If you won’t take charge of the transition, I’ll need you to give me a list of people with ironclad integrity...and they won’t be allowed a choice.”
The two stood in silence for a few moments, until Jill said, “All right. I’ll give you three months, no more, and I’ll bring in some of the best people I know.”
***
“Tobias said you wanted to talk to us, Sergeant Major?” Steward Michael “Shades” Schaeffer said to Jill Repeth after she let him and Steward John Clayton into her office in Conquest’s Marine country.
“Call me Jill, please. You’re not Marines. And yes, I wanted to talk to you. Drink?”
“Sure,” said Shades, removing the ubiquitous dark glasses that earned him his nickname. “Whatever you’re having.”
“Not for me, thanks,” Clayton replied.
“I remember. You’re a Mormon, right?”
Clayton nodded.
“Glad I’m not,” Shades said with a grin.
“You’re not anything at all, so we people of faith got you outnumbered two to one, Shades,” Jill replied with a mischievous air.
Shades held up his hands. “Okay, you win. Just don’t make me wear the magic underwear.”
“Touché.” Jill gave Shades a plastic highball glass with three fingers of Martian whiskey, and handed Clayton a bottle of genuine apple juice. “To tough jobs and the people that gotta do them.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Shades as he clinked and sipped.
“You’re gonna like what I have to say even less, but I’m hoping you’ll back me up on this.” She reached behind her to pluck a sheet of hardcopy off her desk, giving it to Clayton.
Once he skimmed it, he handed it to Shades and said, “An official edict from Markis appointing you to organize, train and equip an expansion of the EarthFleet Steward contingent.”
“Have some respect for your Emperor, John,” Shades said, his eyelid twitching as he read the document.
“The whole Empire thing is a bit silly, if you ask me,” Clayton replied.
Jill said, “It’s not silly for the people that lived under the Meme Empire. After the Scourge attack, they needed something familiar to cling to. Spooky – I mean Spectre – set things up this way and now we’re stuck with them, at least until we put the Scourges back on their heels. I’ve spoken with Markis, and he’s already making policy changes to ease the current government back toward democracy.”
“So why does he need more Stewards? I hear he’s wildly popular with the citizenry after Spectre stepped down. That guy is scary.”
“It’s not the common folk that are the problem. It’s all the officials and bureaucrats that will lose out as things change, plus the crazies that will attack any government no matter what it looks like. And then there’s the Skulls...”
Clayton growled. “Might as well call them what they are: thugs. They need to go.”
“I agree,” Jill said. “That’s why we need something different to secure the Emperor, the palace, and the high-priority government facilities. Stewards. An institution that won’t have the stink of the purges on it, that won’t run prisons, conduct trials or publicly execute people. Those functions need to be separate from guarding and policing, and won’t be our problem.”
“And you want us to, what? Join you in this?” Shades seemed skeptical.
“Yes. I need a cadre of people I can rely on, starting with you two. I wish Absen had given up Tobias or he’d be here too, but that got shot down. I need Stewards I know and trust, which means I need you guys.”
“But you’re a Marine.”
“Not for the next three months, I’m not. I’m detached as a Steward again.” Jill opened the closet in her stateroom to reveal two sets of service whites. “I think I can still fit into them.”
“I’m in,” Clayton said. “Even if I didn’t owe you my life, going all the way back to the McConleys’ farm, I like this idea. And, it’ll be nice to have a dirtside assignment for a while.” He looked over at Shades.
“I don’t know, Jill. Training newbies? Not really my thing.”
“They won’t be that new. We’ll have a couple of dozen line Stewards assigned to us and we’ll be screening applicants from all sorts of similar fields. Probably the majority will be Marines, because they already have cyberware, but there will be others – law enforcement, Ground Forces people, Fleet crew...and there are more we will need to recruit, such as Blends and technical specialists.”
“Blends? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope,” Jill said. “There are thousands of them on Earth now, most children of the original Blends. Call them quarter-Meme, I guess. But the point is, they were born and raised here on Earth. They have Meme memories from their parents, but like any children of immigrants, they identify with the place of their birth. And, now that the Meme are our allies, there’s no reason to think they have divided loyalties. What they do have is a unique set of biological abilities that we’ll need to do our jobs. In fact...I hear that if you want to become a Blend, pretty soon you’ll be able to volunteer for it.”
“Really? What, are more Meme looking for bodies?”
“No, these will be made from blank Meme mitoses, with no minds inside. It will be like getting a biological upgrade package.”
Shades laughed uneasily. “Are you doing it?”
“Nope, but that’s a personal choice. If you’re interested, now’s your opportunity.”
Shades pursed his lips while the other two stared at him. Eventually, he said, “Okay. I’ll do the three months at least. And I’ll think about the Blend thing.”
“Excellent. Pack your bags and say your goodbyes, then. We leave tomorrow for Shepparton.”
***
Accompanied by Clayton and Shades, Chief Steward Repeth entered the barracks complex she’d been assigned. It resided within the walls of the Shepparton Palace. Black-clad Skulls scurried here and there carrying boxes and equipment.
“Looks like they’re leaving in a hurry,” Clayton said. The departing inhabitants glared at the white-clad Stewards. “And they know we’re replacing them. I don’t think they’re happy.”
“Not surprising. They’re being demoted, moved away from the center of power.”
“At least they’re leaving peacefully,” said Shades. “You sure it’s a good idea for us to be here? We might provoke them,” he said as one of the Skulls deliberately threw a shoulder into him as he passed.
Jill shrugged, staring after the retreating offender. “Spectre gave the orders. They’re being reorganized as a special ops unit under the authority of the Ground Forces. They’ll still get to go after the enemies of the people, but they won’t be nearly as much danger to the government itself.”
“Markis is setting up checks and balances.”
“Yes.” Jill led them through offices and hallways to a large gymnasium, mostly empty and deserted. “There’s a parade ground through that door. Once the rest of the Stewards join us, we’ll use these two large spaces, indoors and out, for our initial testing, which will be almost entirely psychological. We can implant any physical capabilities we want into people; it’s hearts and minds that we can’t manufacture. We’ll set up stations with interviews, questionnaires, leadership exercises, reaction tests – anything we can think of. The ones that pass, we’ll run through a further program to see if they’re Steward material.”
“Okay.” Clayton hefted his bags. “Where do we bunk?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” Jill led the two men down narrower corridors and into a barracks area. “We’ll take staterooms, as will the other Stewards. The trainees will sleep in the open bays, boot camp style.” She checked doors until she found the former commander’s quarters, still containing furniture, though it had been thoroughly emptied. Setting her bags on the floor, she gestured. “You guys get the rooms to the left and right.”
Shutting the door, she began to unpack. A moment later, her highly sensitive hearing detected the distinctive whine and crackle of EMP cannon, and two thuds.
Immediately preparing for the worst case, Jill triggered her internal comlink and searched for a receiving ping even as she shoved furniture in front of the door. Finding no handshake, she set the comm to broadcast in the clear and said, “Mayday, mayday, Chief Steward Repeth under attack in the former Skulls complex, possibly by the same. I’m in the commander’s stateroom and will try to hold out as long as possible.”
Setting the transmission to repeat, she made a brief search of the room, looking for any egress. The walls were made of steel-reinforced cinder block, and she had no weapon heavier than her venerable PW5 in its holster. The ventilation ducting was too small to fit through, though given time she might be able to widen an opening using bedframe struts.
She doubted her opponents were going to give her that time.
EMP cannon meant someone was gunning for cyborgs; a blast of electrical overload would shut down and possibly fry her cybernetics, depending on the charge’s power. It also meant they were probably trying to capture the Stewards, since she’d heard no follow-up gunfire.
Jill wasn’t at all sure that was a good sign.
The piled furniture began to rock and move slightly as something slammed rhythmically against the door. She braced herself against it, and then swore as blue lightnings played along its metal frame. Bleed-over briefly fuzzed her senses, but the energy wasn’t powerful enough to knock her out. They must have been hoping she was holding the door shut with her bare hands, rather than bracing the barrier of mostly wooden items.
Shotgun blasts came next, blowing out pieces of the door around its hinges and lock. Soon, the barrier would be shattered and she’d have to fight. Without armor and heavy weapons, against opponents prepared for her, she felt the odds were slim. Hopefully, the cavalry would arrive in time.
Unfortunately, nobody showed up before the door lay in scattered pieces. Through the pile of furniture Jill could see black-clad Skulls, all heavily armed.
Spooky’s words, spoken long ago during training, came to her mind. “As a covert operative, you may end up on a mission you can’t complete or in a fight you can’t win. Resist the urge to go out in a blaze of glory unless absolutely necessary. Surviving and living to fight another day is your duty. No matter how ugly the future seems, no matter what the torture, your goal must be to remain alive for one more day. You never know. That one more day might bring rescue.”
As much as she hated to do it, Jill moved into the head and stashed her PW5 in its air vent, throwing it as far back into the duct as she could. That completed, she shut down all of her cybernetics, hoping that by doing so she would preserve them. Maybe the Skulls would make a mistake – today, tomorrow, next week – and she could surprise them.
Stepping out of the bathroom, she kept her hands raised as the Skulls poured into the room. That didn’t stop the one with the EMP cannon from aiming it at her and pulling the trigger, turning her world to black.
When Jill awoke, she found herself in a cell. Trying to activate her internal comlink, she found it inoperative, whether from the EMP or some more intentional interference, she didn’t know. She didn’t try to bring up any of her other cybernetics, not wishing to tip off any watchers.
Sitting up on the simple bunk, she faced the unconcealed spy-eye in an upper corner. “I’m awake now,” she said, leaning casually back against the wall. “Whatever you’re planning, let’s get on with it.”
Scant minutes later, the tramp of feet sounded outside the door. When it opened, she saw the corridor filled with Skulls. “Put these on,” one of them said, throwing a set of heavy ferrocrystal wrist cuffs, unbreakable even with her enhancements.
Hope for an easy time sank, but the fact that they were letting her cuff herself gave her the opportunity to tense her muscles and lock the restraints into a setting that gave her a tiny bit of wiggle and flex room.
Another Skull waved a scanner in her direction. After checking its reading, the woman said, “She’s dead.” Presumably, she meant Jill’s cybernetics showed as nonfunctional.
A dozen hands gripped Jill roughly, the Skulls surrounding her and hustling her down passageways. By the bleak industrial construction she thought they must no longer be within the palace. Soon, she was marched into a room with nothing but lights, a table and two chairs, interrogation style. She glanced up at the small, heavily barred window set high in the wall, which allowed the blue Australian sky to show through.
The Skulls locked her cuffs to a ring in the middle of the bolted-down steel table, forcing her to sit, arms outstretched in front of her.
Steel, she thought. Table, chairs and lock, all of high-grade stainless. A potential mistake.
The door opened and, for a moment, utter shock seized her by the throat. “Skull?” she said, staring at the tall, bald man who stood before her, his deep-set eyes gazing back confidently.
“One of them,” the man replied. “Their leader, actually, and their living role model.”
Jill realized then who she was looking at, someone she’d only heard about, never met. “You’re the one they call Raven. A Blend. Ezekiel’s brother, Charles Denham.”
“Skull Denham was my father, Raphaela my mother, and you’re right: that weakling Ezekiel is my brother. Shall I recite your genealogy too?”
“What the hell do you want, Charles? Whatever you’re doing here, it’s highly illegal. More to the point, it’s stupid. We can’t have a bitter rivalry between the security services with the Scourges on their way.”
“Who says they’re on their way? Our new allies the Meme? We can’t trust them, nor any of the Pure Blends left. But even if they are, we fought them off once. We’ll do so again. The real enemy is internal – people like you and Markis that are going to undermine everything we built here.”
“I don’t see you built anything, Charles. You started as rebels, but now you’re the new SS, rooting out dissent with immoral methods, which breeds more dissent. And you’re just pissed off because you’re being moved away from the center of power.”
Charles smiled humorlessly. “Spectre built a functioning government over the last two years. He’s moved heaven and Earth to get the economy working again, producing, and now he’s turning it all over to that do-gooder relic Markis, who’s going to send it to hell in a handbasket.”
“You can’t stop Markis from making changes. Spectre will hunt you down personally if you try to depose the new Emperor.”
Charles laughed hollowly. “Who said anything about deposing him? I just want you and your cronies on my side. Between my Skulls and your Stewards, we’ll keep removing the enemies of the state, no matter what Markis wants. It’s not like he has to know about it, after all.”
Jill’s laughter echoed Charles’, though hers rang more genuine. Rattling her chains, she said, “And this is how you think you’re gonna convince me?”
“No. This is.” The tall man sent the guards out of the room, leaving the two alone. He stepped forward to take a seat, staring intently into Jill’s face.
“What?” she asked after a moment. “You’re trying to hypnotize me?”
Abruptly, Charles seized her trapped hands in his. “Just relax and don’t try to fight, Miss Repeth. You can’t win. I’m Skull Denham now.”
“That’s Mrs. Repeth, you freak,” Jill said evenly, ignoring his touch, staring daggers into his eyes. “Raven, I served with Skull Denham. I knew Skull Denham. I’d say Skull Denham was a friend of mine. And you know what, Charles? You’re no Skull Denham.”
They remained that way for a long minute, Jill’s faint smile widening and Charles’ expression growing more frustrated. “What the hell?” he asked, half to her, half to himself.
“Why, we’re holding hands, Chuck. It’s sweet, but as I just told you, I’m a happily married woman, so I’ll have to say no to your little mind-rape attempt.”
Charles only gripped her hands harder with a growl. “You’ve got some kind of biochemical block, right?”
Jill said nothing, only continuing to smile.
Closing his eyes, Charles bore down with an air of tight concentration.
Now, Jill told herself. This is my chance.
Rebooting her cybernetics, she found most of her systems intact, shielded from the EMP by their dormant state. Twisting her hands with effortless strength, she extended the two-centimeter claws in her fingertips and sliced both of Charles’ hands off at the wrists.
His scream of shock and pain drowned out the sound of those blades of sharpened ferrocrystal cutting through the mere steel of the table’s ring. Now free except for the unbreakable cuffs, Jill leaped across the room toward Charles. Before the Blend could shut down his pain and stop his wrists from bleeding, she slammed the heavy bracelets into his head, knocking him unconscious.
Then, she made a deliberate and uncharacteristic decision.
He’s not going to be rehabilitated, and with the ability to reshape his body and with his network of Skulls, he’ll turn into a rebel insurgent again. I looked into his eyes and there was no flexibility there. If I let him live, he might be the difference between beating the Scourge and our extinction.
Hesitating no longer, Jill wrapped her cuffed wrists across Charles’s neck and, with a convulsive heave, tore his head from his shoulders. With no idea the extent of Blend healing powers, she had to believe that detaching the brain from the spinal cord would effectively terminate the being itself. Without fire to reduce the body to ashes, this was the best she could do.
Stuffing the head into her tunic, she leaped for the high window just as the door burst open and Skulls began pouring in. Seizing the bars, she used all the power of her cyberware to rip them from their frame. Believing her enhancements neutralized, they’d brought her to a standard interrogation room, not one built to hold a cyborg.
Flinging the tangled steel at the first Skull, she vaulted toward the window, forcing herself through as her uniform caught on the rough edges. Charles’ decapitated head slowed her further, and she felt the hot spikes of bullets tear into her legs and buttocks.
Falling to the ground outside, Jill found herself still within sight of the palace, though outside its walls in an industrial section of the city. Forcing herself to her feet, she felt her flesh scream as she made unnatural demands on it. Polymeric muscle fibers did what human meat couldn’t, allowing her to run down the busy street faster than most of the slow-moving trucks.
Dialing painkillers and stims, Jill tried her internal comlink again, but apparently the sensitive electronics had been fried. Spitting epithets, she leaped onto the running board of a heavy truck – they’d call it a lorry here in Australia, wouldn’t they, she thought irrelevantly – and reached though its open window to grab the arm of the burly driver, her hands still cuffed together.
“Give me your phone,” Jill said, squeezing his biceps until she began to cause pain.
“No worries, Sheila,” the driver said, eyes widening as he pressed the device into her hands. “It’s bog standard.”
“Thanks,” she said, letting go and leaping to the ground, continuing to run down random streets as she dialed the only number she knew here in Shepparton.
“Hello, Jill,” Spectre’s voice came tinny over through the speaker. “Have you –”
“Shut up and listen, Spooky. I’m on...on Drummond, near where it hits Telford, and I just escaped from your oh-so-loyal Skulls. I’m sure they’re looking for me, so I need help fast.”
“I’ll be there within minutes. Don’t hang up. I’ll track the phone.”
Jill slipped the phone into a pocket and considered ditching the blood-soaked head of the Blend, and then nightmares of the thing regenerating itself into a full creature wafted through her mind. No, she couldn’t get rid of it unless she could be sure it was destroyed.
Abruptly, sirens wailed all over the city, calling all response forces to full alert. Workers and vehicles altered their directions, some pulling over, some speeding up. The streets became more orderly all around her.
Jill slowed, and then climbed up a parked heavy equipment hauler with a tank atop it, one of the new Trolls. Using it as a vantage point, she crouched and peered over its heavy main turret, looking back the way she came.
Down the street poured two dozen Skulls, sprinting after Jill in a mob with nanocommando speed. They may not have implanted cybernetics, but their boosted quickness and their weaponry made them damned dangerous, especially wounded as she was. She could feel that her legs remained weak by comparison with the rest of her, and she was beginning to get hungry as the Eden Plague and the nanites within her demanded replenishment.
Behind the infantry, but rapidly catching up, drove several marked Skull utility vehicles with machineguns mounted on them. At the intersection she’d crossed, each vehicle took one of the three directions while those on foot spread out and scouted her way.
The whirr of a VTOL sounded above, and Jill looked up to see the four-rotor vehicle descending directly toward her. At the last moment, it veered to land in the wide industrial street. The passenger door opened and Spectre stepped out, this time dressed in blazing yellow.
Skulls surrounded the air vehicle and formed a perimeter facing outward, clearly recognizing the imperial insignia and the man who disembarked. Spectre made a chopping motion to the pilot, who shut down the engines and rotors. In a moment, all became quiet, except for the background of sirens and horns in the distance.
Jill watched Spectre speak to the Skulls’ officer for a moment, but her cybernetic hearing was down and she couldn’t make out the conversation. The other man became animated, clearly unhappy. After thirty seconds more arguing, he made a gesture of negation, and then began yelling to his men.
Reaching casually but quickly into his jacket, Spectre removed a pistol and shot the officer in the head, dropping him boneless to the tarmac. The other Skulls turned to look, aghast, and then slowly went back to their guard positions.
“Come on down, Jill,” Spectre said loudly, still holding his weapon.
“When I’m sure I won’t get shot,” Jill called back, noticing one of the Skulls had turned in her direction and lifted his rifle. She maintained a position of cover, the tank turret blocking the man’s line of sight.
“Lower your weapon or share your squad leader’s fate,” Spectre said to the Skull, who complied.
Jill slid down the painted metal of the tank, staggering when she hit the ground. “I think I’m going to need a surgeon to dig some shrapnel out of me,” she said as she walked gingerly up to Spectre.
Just then, a truck full of more Skulls rounded the corner and slammed to a halt in front of the VTOL, disgorging its load of infantry while a man atop it turned his machinegun in its mount to aim at the two.
“Stay close behind me, Jill,” Spectre hissed. “They can’t shoot me.”
“You sure?”
“Unless they’ve managed to overcome their bio-psych conditioning...”
Jill moved up as near as she could to her savior.
“Who’s in charge of this mob?” Spectre said loudly. “Come now, identify yourself.”
“I am,” a hard-faced woman with colonel’s insignia said, stepping forward.
“Report properly,” Spectre said, a dangerous edge in his voice.
“Colonel Bondrade, my lord, Croc Troop. That woman killed Raven.” She pointed past him.
“Under what circumstances, Colonel?”
“She was being interviewed.”
“In heavy shackles? Do you know who this is?”
Colonel Bonrade shook her head.
“This is Chief Steward Jill Repeth, an old comrade of mine from before the Plague Wars, in the palace on official business and under my protection.”
“My lord, did you hear what I said? She murdered Raven! She must be tried and shot.”
Jill laughed and muttered in his ear, “Look at what you’ve created, Spooky. Apparently being tried and being shot are inseparable.”
Spectre’s voice rose to a bellow. “I SAY WHAT MUST BE DONE HERE, NOT YOU, COLONEL.” He aimed his sidearm. “Or, as I told these others, you may follow this squad leader into Hell, right here, right now.”
Snarling and fingering the trigger of her submachine gun, the woman replied, “You’re no longer in charge, Spectre. Now you’re just another Yellow trying to throw his weight around.”
“And yet, it is I who am following the fully human Emperor Markis’ orders, protecting his new Chief Steward, and you who are resisting them. Colonel, do you even know who you’re fighting or what side you’re on?”
Anger turned to rage, and the Skull colonel raised her weapon – or tried to. As she lifted it, her arms twitched and she couldn’t hold it steady. She managed to fire one quick burst, the bullets ricocheting from the tarmac to stutter along the concrete wall of a nearby building before Spectre put a single round into her chest. The projectile punched through her body armor and out the back without difficulty, and the woman fell backward with a thud.
Three of her accompanying Croc Troopers tried to fire on Spectre as well. The Blend took his time as they struggled with muscles grown suddenly rebellious, lining up each and dropping them like targets. The rest of those who had accompanied the colonel, including the Skull on the machinegun, lowered their weapons and raised their hands.
“Listen, you Skulls,” Spectre said in voice full of venom. “Raven turned traitor to the Empire of Earth by trying to interfere with Emperor Markis’ edicts, thinking that our new leader is soft and weak because he knows the meaning of mercy. Now Raven is dead, and Colonel Bondrade with him. They dishonored you and they dishonored me. So take the word back to the rest: the Skulls will follow their orders to the letter, and I will be watching constantly from the shadows to make certain they do. No one is immune from another purge, this time of those who wear the black. Now go. Report to your assigned barracks and await instructions from your new chain of command, the Ground Forces.”
Jill watched as the Skulls rode away in the truck, the two units mingling and moving as if stunned by the turn of events. Spectre twirled his finger in the direction of the VTOL pilot and the rotors spun up as he opened the door for Jill.
Inside the luxuriously appointed craft, Spectre slid his pistol back into his jacket. “Did you really kill Charles?” he asked.
Jill awkwardly lifted the severed head from inside her jacket, dropping it in Spectre’s lap. “The bastard tried to mess with my head, so I took his. I guess nobody ever told him Stewards are inoculated against Blend bio-psych tricks.”
Spectre chuckled. “I must admit, that’s a well-kept secret, as I didn’t know either. How did you...ah, it must have been Raphaela or one of her brood.”
“Yep. Absen had her immunize all the Stewards.”
“And you insisted you didn’t do wet work.”
“I did what I believed necessary at the time,” Jill said stiffly.
“My point exactly.” Spectre clapped Jill on the shoulder.
Jill turned to look out the window at the city below. “They EMPed Shades, Clayton and me, but I shut my systems off in time to preserve them. I woke up in a cell block. Can you get these things off me?” She turned back and held up the heavy cuffs. “Then I need to find my men.”
“When we get to the palace I’m sure we can locate a locksmith. We’ll find your men, Jill, if they’re still alive. I’ve sent in the regular ground forces to clean out the Croc compound you escaped from. In fact, I can do better than that.” Spectre picked up a comm handset and punched in a string of numbers. “General? This is Spectre. Raven has turned traitor and been executed. You are now in charge of the Skulls, in my name. If you want to keep your job and your life, you will ensure two men in Skull custody, Stewards Schaeffer and Clayton, are returned intact to the palace immediately.”
Hanging up, Spectre took Raven’s head in his hands. “Alas, poor Yorick...”
“That thing can’t come back to life or anything, can it? I mean, dead is dead, even for Blends, right?”
“Yes, though a Blend might survive even a decapitation if the head and body were reunited within minutes. You’ve prevented that, so...Charles Denham is no more.”
“Raphaela won’t be happy.”
“She’ll understand. She’s not naïve.”
The VTOL landed in a palace courtyard, one that Jill hadn’t seen before. Armed and uniformed Ground Forces regulars guarded every meter of wall, every doorway.
“I apologize for not making sure the Skulls were gone and the area secure before you arrived,” Spectre said.
“I wish I could believe that,” Jill replied. “I have to wonder whether you just ‘happened’ to let two dangerous dogs wander into the same backyard. Maybe you wanted to see who’d come out on top.”
“An interesting theory, but not quite correct. If anything, I wanted to see Charles’ reaction to your presence, but I never believed he would try what he did.” Spectre held up his hands. “Even I miscalculate from time to time.”
“Good to know you realize you’re still mortal, Spooky.”
Spectre smiled. “I know you’re trying to needle me, but from you, I welcome that old nickname. It’s nostalgic. You see? I’m human after all.”
Jill snorted. “See you later. And make sure these soldiers know what a Steward’s uniform looks like and what it means. I’d hate for any other heads to roll.”
***
In his quarters, Spectre placed Charles’ bald head on a table and rested his fingertips on the skin of its cranium. Sending a flood of seeker particles, he soon extracted much of the dead man’s Meme molecular memory from where it resided alongside its human counterpart.
Without cellular life to preserve it, the bioelectrical data any human would possess had already disintegrated long past recovery, but the complex Meme molecules acted like pieces of a hard drive, able to survive long after death.
You were more right than you knew, Jill, Spectre thought to himself. I was hoping Charles would overreach himself and make a mistake egregious enough to bring discredit, but I never expected him to underestimate you to the point of losing his life. Still, it may work out for the best. His loss as a highly effective insurgent leader must be balanced against his unpredictability. Overall...I can live with it.
Eventually, Spectre retrieved all he could, an interesting cache of secrets that would serve him and Naomi Alkina quite well in the coming months. The Skulls would have to be brought completely to heel, and one part of that was to eliminate – or seize – all their hidden bases, safe houses, and other resources.
Opening a valve and flipping an igniter switch, Spectre waited until his small but effective incinerator, usually used to destroy hardcopy or data drives, reached its optimum temperature. “Goodbye, Charles,” he said aloud, rolling the head down the short chute and into the blazing flame. “Rest in pieces.”