Endgame

“Oh. So the scans won’t detect a dormant bug?”

“They shouldn’t. It will read as a small token. The electronic components are shielded, inert, until she activates it.”

And by the noises I’m hearing, she has. No vid, obviously, but I hear footfalls, the rustle of fabric, and Tiana’s breathing. This is good tech.

“Wait here,” someone tells her curtly.

She sounds like she’s trying not to cry. Good. That will sell the story.

“What is amiss?” the prince asks at length.

“Your Highness…the most dreadful thing…fire…” In nearly incoherent fits and starts, she babbles out the story we need the Imperials to believe: Mishani’s secret lover and Flavius’s insane rage.

Tiana spins the fight into a thing of tragic proportions, complete with Mishani’s dying of a broken neck, then how Flavius went on a mad rampage. He set all the fires and nearly killed Tiana as well, but she ran as the flames spread, and a centurion pulled her to safety. Now he owns her shinai-bond, and the town house stands in ruins. She thought the prince should know immediately.

At last, she falls silent.

Does he believe her? Shit, I wish I could see his face.

“This is…astonishing,” he says at last. “Appalling. I do appreciate your coming to tell me. I do need to handle certain…realities in a situation such as this. You said a centurion saved you? So you’re protected? Good…good.” He repeats the last word in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Tiana’s fate.

“He’s waiting for me, Your Highness. I’m to join him at the barracks.” Which is where all centurions who find themselves without a patron end up.

“Thank you. You may go.” No words of sympathy for her loss or concern that she might be hurt or frightened.

She’s La’hengrin, less than nothing in his eyes.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

If he had been less distracted, less worried about spin control, he might’ve demanded corroboration from the centurion, but it’s unthinkable that a La’hengrin could be wandering around telling stories without the express permission of her protector. For once, their rules serve us well.

A shushing noise tells me that Tiana has gone, and she’s left the device behind, just as promised. Her part is over; she’s safe. Thank Mary.

Seconds later, Prince Marcus makes a call. “It appears I have an opening in my office. Quite unexpected.”

I recognize the governor’s voice in the reply. “Oh? What’s happened?”

Marcus repeats the story, though without the emotion or the excellent flourishes. I find his version quite plebeian, in fact, but what matters is that he bought it. Flavius and Mishani are dead.

“Gaius seems to be coming along nicely,” the governor observes. “I’ve seen no sign of democratic bias since he came to work for me. So promote one of your other legates to primus and give Gaius an official title with my blessing. He’s been my aide long enough.”

That’s a lucky break although not entirely unforeseen. With Gaius on the inside, there’s a chance he’ll hinder their movements. That is, if he didn’t lie to Mishani in the hope of getting on her good side. Men sometimes do that when they’re trying to impress a woman. Given a taste of power, he might forget all his scruples.

But I hope not. He’s one noble I’d like to save.

Prince Marcus sounds suitably grateful. “I didn’t dare hope—”

“Spare me the false coin,” the governor snaps. “The wheels turn just so, and we both know it. Remember your family owes me when it comes time to reconsider my appointment.”

“Of course. How shall I handle the press?”

“Accidental fire. Death by misadventure.”

Marcus laughs. “The usual, then.”

“Indeed.”

They disconnect shortly thereafter, and the prince leaves his office. It was risky of Tiana to carry it in, but we needed confirmation that the cover story was effective. The bug will decay into splinters of metal dust, so by the time anyone encounters it, there will be no clue as to its original purpose. And that’s our cue to scramble.

Vel sheds his skin and feeds the material into the recycler. He can leave no trace of what’s happened in this room. To avoid attention, he rebuilds his composite average-guy face; otherwise, people would remember an Ithtorian coming out of the hotel. He’s not associated openly with the resistance, but we must avoid scrutiny. I wish I could permanently change my looks with such facility, but I’ll have to made do with a cloak. I’ll be careful not to show my face to anyone on the way to the rendezvous.

Mary, I can’t wait to see the rest of my unit.

It takes him two hours to complete the transformation—with my help. This time, he gives me a flat-edged knife, and says, “We must hurry, Sirantha.”

Yeah, every minute we spend here increases the risk of discovery. Though it seems Tiana got away clean, it’s better not to risk capture. She knows where she left us, after all. First rule of guerilla warfare is to camp only where your enemies cannot reach you. This hotel doesn’t qualify.

At last, he’s someone else, and I’m wearing a maid’s attire. “You ready to hit the security room?” I ask.

He pats his pack. “Set.”

I lead the way, glad to be active again. There are no words for how sick I am of playing the submissive, obedient female.

A sole Pretty Robotics worker occupies the security room. Helpful. Vel disables it with an EMP and wipes the short-term data drive while I search the security cameras for the footage that shows our arrival. Since we weren’t publicly dead yet, there was no outcry; we were just another couple here for some afternoon delight. That’s not shocking, completely in character with what the VI sees every day.

“Here,” I say. “And there’s a backup.”

Quickly, efficiently, Vel corrupts the footage so it’s impossible to tell who we are. This is better than deletion, which might make someone think there was a secret being kept—and credits to be had for exposing it. This? It’s technical failure, and it happens often in places where the hardware isn’t top-of-the-line.

“Done,” Vel says.

“Let’s roll.”

My heart pounds frantically as I step onto the moving walk. Only the poor—of whom there are a few—and the La’hengrin use the ground transports. The moving walk takes us to the hub, where we catch an enormous land ferry to the provinces. They don’t go all the way to the villages, mind. Once you hit the pastoral hub, then you walk…or if you’re lucky, someone picks you up.

Vel uses his body as a shield, keeping everyone away from me, as I’m the weak link as we make our getaway. This run is terrifying…and exhilarating. I’m smiling by the time I climb onto the ferry, which rumbles and puffs like the outdated tech it is. I can’t believe these beasts are still running. They’re part combustion engine, part solar-powered, and they have great tires that flatten the foliage as they go. There are no roads, per se, but in a vehicle like this one, they aren’t required. No pilots, either. Just a VI who knows the route by heart and will not accept deviations, regardless of rationale or request.

I take a seat at the back, and Vel slides in beside me. There are few people on the transport—just an older La’hengrin male, who has probably outlived his usefulness to his protector. Nobody goes out to the provinces if they have a choice; the cities have all the work, all the opportunity. But that’s the whole problem with this system. The La’hengrin don’t have any choice.

CHAPTER 44

When we reach the camp after hours of hiking, I’m tired. It’s located in a sheltered valley that we find by virtue of coordinates on Vel’s handheld. At first glance, it doesn’t look like much, but as I draw closer, I see bodies and tents—it’s a fully mobile encampment, nothing big or heavy. Everything can be folded and squared away in field kits.

There’s a sentry. The light is behind him, dying behind the mountains in a sienna halo, blinding me to everything but his shape. He calls out, “Password?” And then levels the gun on us, just in case we don’t know it.

They’re taking no chances. It’s unlikely Imperials could find this place without capturing one of us, but better not to risk compromising the operation. I haven’t communicated with Loras in weeks, but he set up this rendezvous via Suni Tarn.

“Vector 7845,” Vel responds.

“Welcome back!” The sentry turns out to be Xirol. “That you, Jax?” He peers at me; he’s the only one who’s seen my new face.

I nod. “Sorry, I know it’s weird for you.”

His face has gained lines, and he’s lost his easy smile. Which means something terrible has happened. Dread grows like a fungus in my gut.

“Go on. Loras is waiting for you.”

I trudge past the picket into a small knot of tents. There are no fires burning. Instead, there are a couple of small chemical stoves that emit no rads, no smoke.

Something is cooking in a primitive-looking pot, and it smells fantastic. I realize I don’t remember when last I ate.

Glancing around, I take stock further, doing a head count. This isn’t just our cell…and I wonder what’s up. I find the guerilla warlord himself sitting at a camp table with charts and maps spread before him. It’s shockingly low-tech, but they can’t track us through the bounce, either. This is less efficient but more secure. Once he’s made all the plans, committed them to memory, the paper burns.

He looks up with a distracted smile. “Jax?”

“Yes, it’s me. Brief us?” While the war rages in the provinces, our unit is now positioned close enough to strike at the capital.

He hesitates. “Our squad required augmentation. There were…losses.”

“Who?” Vel asks.

“They caught Bannie two weeks ago. Rikir disregarded my orders and tried to save her. The Imperials executed them both quietly.”

That explains Xirol’s expression. “What happened, exactly?”

Loras studies me. “Xirol tried to go. Rikir restrained him physically, and we sedated X for his own protection. I didn’t think anyone else was close enough to Bannie to require it. In the morning, Rik was gone. He left a note.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

“That he was doing this for Xirol, who was like a brother to him. He knew Xirol would never rest until he got her back or died trying.”

“Shit.”

“I am so sorry,” Vel says.

So who’s left? I saw the sad, broken version of Xirol coming in. Zeeka waves at me from across the camp, and there’s Farah, frowning at the med kit. So there are only six of us now. It hits me hard; I’ll never see Bannie, Eller, Rikir, or Timmon again, and for a while, we were inseparable. We were a unit. Maybe if I’d been there, I could’ve done something…but that’s survivor’s guilt talking. I ought to know. I’ve felt it before.

But there are certain practical implications. “Does this mean the base has been compromised?”