Pillars of light and fir.., p.108
PILLARS OF LIGHT AND FIRE: THE COMPLETE SERIES, page 108
Morgan examined it. It was as intricate as Isolde’s suit and it was impressive. “It’s a Paladin suit.”
Anora entered the room with Morgan. “It’s a G-2, but I’ve disabled most of the systems for now until you get used to it. As we train you, we’ll progressively enable all the systems until you are fully functional and proficient in their use, including the micro-drive.” Anora touched her temple to indicate the circlet she wore.
“How long does it take to learn how to operate this?”
“You gain instinctual-level operation at around six months. We don’t have that kind of time. We barely have a fraction, honestly.”
“That’s why you’re speeding up my learning. Has that been tried before?”
Anora shook her head.
“And how long do you think it will take me?”
“I think we can make you learn in two weeks, with risk. Ideally, I’d test this out gradually, but this is cutting-edge, and—”
“—the Delphic Shift. I get it. I can’t learn this simple suit any faster.” Morgan picked up the suit.
“If you want to be the person who rescues your son, you need this suit. Your Chevalier gear won’t be enough.”
Morgan weighed the option briefly. The technology was hers now, with a price. “The side effects?”
Anora shrugged. “Severe headaches, trauma, brain damage, death. The usual drug-commercial caveats.” Anora fixed Morgan with her gaze. “We’ll do our best. The rest will depend on you. And in this case, you’re a consenting, fully formed adult. Arthur won’t be able to save your son without your help. That much is clear from the Oracle and the Prophet.”
Morgan soured at that last word but let it go. “You’re going to watch me?”
“Help you get into the suit. The G-2 is user friendly, but if you’ve never worn one before, you need to be walked through it. You’re lucky. I would’ve given you a G-1, but you need the newer intuitive design. New Paladins like Tor will get the G-1 until his can be upcycled to G-2 specifications.” Her voice had a tone of boredom as she spoke, Morgan noted.
“But it’s locked down.”
“An untrained Paladin can become a cellular smear if she’s unable to control the micro-drive. It has a lot of safety systems built into it, but it isn’t idiot-proof. It takes finesse and expertise to operate.” Anora caressed the silvery gray lining. “It’s still more advanced than your uniforms. If it were on the market, it’d be worth more than anything in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
“Even John Lennon’s 1965 Rolls-Royce Phantom? Pass on that ugly thing. I want the system fully active.”
Anora raised her eyebrow.
Morgan pulled off her shirt and trousers. She was genuinely perplexed at how civilly she was being treated at the hands of the Paladins. Had her Chevaliers gone over to the Paladins’ side on the promise of removing the chemical dependency controls? She had made no deal with Arthur. The alacrity of her Chevaliers put her off balance, and she didn’t like it. She took stock of her situation as she put on the gray Paladin suit. Despite Anora’s claims to the contrary, the suit was easy to don.
She placed her feet on the padded soles, which immediately adhered to the bottoms of her feet. The inner fabric was thin and pliable; it reminded her of the old n-suit designs that the defunct Project Avallach had.
It slid over her skin like silk and once it warmed to her body heat, it molded and conformed to her contours. Anora reminded her to dress in it slowly so it would fit to her shape and prevent chafing. She shrugged into the sleeves, pulling them onto her shoulders. The suit opened at the side rather than in the front like a normal suit or in the back like a wetsuit. Anora stepped forward and showed her how to work the magnetic seal.
“It wasn’t my decision to bring you here,” Anora said, with some danger in her voice. “If I’d had my way, you’d be dead already.”
“Aren’t you in charge?”
“I have my contributions, but I don’t lead.”
“That must be difficult for someone like you.”
“The world changed and running a corporation wouldn’t fight it or help it. Don’t misunderstand me. I have power.”
“Is that why you’re alone with me in here?”
“No. You think this is a prison? We don’t bother with prisons or holding facilities or even guards.”
“Why is that?”
“You Chevaliers don’t know half of what you can do. Paladins do. Juno?”
“Scans complete. No implants. Biorhythms recording now. All vitals are within optimal parameters,” Juno said.
“The suit will protect you when you otherwise can’t protect yourself. It will also help you when you’re in extremis.” Anora handed her an earpiece and a pair of glasses. “You don’t have subdermals or lenses, so you’ll need this to interface with Juno and the suit.”
Morgan nodded and put the glasses on. “CAMLANN, right?” She remembered having one of the portable units before Anora took it all away and destroyed her system.
Anora pulled out Morgan’s gauntlet from her carry bag and returned it to her. Morgan slipped it on. She watched Anora’s posture shift slightly, as though she expected Morgan to fight her way out. Or perhaps she wanted her to. It didn’t matter.
Anora showed her some features of the suit, like the KE shield, which had only functioned partially on the gauntlets. She understood how to activate them and how to access her suit’s sensors. On this suit, they’d enabled only the off hand, as the gauntlet interfered with the operation of the shield on its sleeve. Nearly everything about the suit was managed by the onboard system Juno, a local instantiation of the Juno AI, a new version of one of Anora’s systems.
The hands of the suit were bare, primarily for the focal rings, though this one had been modified to accommodate her gauntlet. The sleeves had gloves in the cuffs. The suit also had a retractable helmet she learned to chin open and shut. She was careful to not move her head too quickly as it operated. When worn, it was much like the Chevalier suit, providing a hermetic seal against the environment, with the helmet drawing breathable air in. The inside of the helmet was blank and quiet and she chinned it back open.
“Does it fly?”
Anora shook her head. “Not yet. Comfortable?”
“Quite.”
Anora waved a hand. “Time for you go through the gauntlet.”
“Gauntlet?” She flexed her hand. “Oh, a metaphor.”
“Yes.”
Morgan inhaled. Whatever it takes.
30
Unsheathing the Blade
MARYLAND CITY, MD—
Indiana vomited violently into the sink. She rinsed her mouth out and splashed water on her face. She opened her eyes and saw violet hues flickered perpetually on her red Chevalier suit—summoning alert. She was back in her room, but she’d forgotten how she got here. She’d been in the Decanting Wing with the prisoner and the woman on the table. Isolde Marks. T. S., the prisoner in the cell. She’d been Paragon, but on the return to her room, her body and mind had reacted to what T. S. had said. She was Indiana again.
The mind makes the motions. The motions are the form. The form is the truth.
The last session must’ve faded, and she’d skipped her medication to prove . . . what exactly? She’d forgotten. Ghost images flashed in her mind.
Memory was an imperfect thing. It was why deceased loved ones’ faces faded from memory with time into something worse than a smear of an impression. It was as though her consciousness were water and the past were an insect pressing on the surface. It couldn’t break the surface tension, but she couldn’t stop the emotions and shadows it triggered. T. S. had disturbed her perfect mind, and it charged her with restless energy. She should do something, anything.
Indiana picked up her helmet and saw her reflection in the mirrored faceplate. Her eyes were dark and haunted in the pulsing violet light. Was it a trick of the flashing suit that made them look blue? She threw the helmet away. She wanted to tear her face off. Something was wrong. She opened her cabinet. She found the packet of pills and then remembered she’d been through the new regimen. She’d passed all her tests. She’d made it through all the new regimen sessions, and she’d made a remarkably fast recovery from her gunshot wound. Then why did she feel like this? Like she was crawling out of her own skin? Was she going crazy? Was she becoming the thing that was hated and feared? The Tripoli Killer? The woman who couldn’t control her powers?
The mind makes the motions. Indiana went back into her room. She was a caged tiger. She was tired of training. No one was like her.
“No one is like you,” he’d said. Who would want to be like her? It was a duality for Indiana. She loved who she was—the best swordsman in the world—but it now came with a heavy price. The price of others’ fear. She thought about Kahina, the nurse she’d met back at Perilous. The woman who didn’t see her as an angel of death. It was small comfort.
Indiana sat down and closed her eyes. The mind makes the motions. She replayed the moves in her mind today. The perfect lunge into the prisoner’s chest. Could it have been better? She only had to think, and she became the shape. She thought of how she’d struck him in the knee. She could’ve done that better. A little higher—hit the nerves just inside the knee next time. She thought of how she’d flicked her hand. She’d barely formed the shape of the waveblade. It was perfect. Her mind was a blank slate. She went through the motions and the forms and the truth. Her mind settled, and she felt suddenly exhausted. Her mind was tired of fighting with itself. She slid her hand to her collar and turned off her suit system. The pulsing light tape went out. She opened her eyes. Things were no longer behind her eyes.
She closed them again. She would wait. She should wait.
* * *
Hooves splashed in the water as they crossed the fjord. Indiana watched the long procession of grim-faced men on horseback pass her.
“Where am I?” Indiana said, her voice raw and throaty.
The squire on the roan next to her answered, “Normandy. A place where many years from now a deadly fight will begin, and yet it was many years ago today.”
Indiana pulled off her helmet, sweat streaming down her face. “No, not here.” She looked at the phoenix on her tabard. It had once been bright red but was now faded with sunlight and time. They were on the long march home. That much she recalled.
“That place between the past and the present,” the squire said. “It’s the legacy you brought from your ancestral past I needed to understand the future. It is something Grandmother cannot teach me. It can only come from the person you’ve always been.”
“What is that?”
“A soul with many lives, like my father.”
Indiana swallowed hard. “I never liked these dreams. I don’t understand them.”
“They are the best and worst glimpses of your past selves. The parts of you that sometimes succeeded but often failed.”
“So, I am reincarnated?”
The squire shook his head. He pulled off his helmet; his dark hair was shorn close and blended with his dark features. He was more Moorish than Saxon, and so familiar to her. His hazel eyes regarded her; the edges crinkled in a smile. “It is the subconscious peaks of human nature. The peaks are harder to achieve as humanity grows. When humanity was small and young, the peaks were like mountains, but in the last century, that has become difficult. There are many, many humans, the control of which is in the hands of those who want control. It is a benevolent thought but misguided. Humanity doesn’t need control. It needs release into the next stage of existence. At the top of a peak.”
“That’s what I am?”
“It’s part,” the squire said. His name was Hector.
The dual nature of herself fuzzed her mind. It made it difficult to grasp what she was trying to learn. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “A storm is coming.”
Hector cocked his head like a bird with a secret. “Does a storm know when it’s coming?”
“A storm has no consciousness . . .” Indiana trailed off as she grasped the thought. It was a metaphor. She was the storm. It raged inside her, unchecked. Angry. Waiting to be unleashed. As if in response to her thought, lightning flashed in the distance. Horses around them hurried across the river. She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the advancing storm on her face.
“I can’t control what’s inside me,” she said to her squire, her only brother.
“There’s nothing inside you they didn’t put there, Indiana,” Hector replied. “It is an illusion.”
“Like this dream?”
“No. I’m speaking of the things they’ve created inside you to control you, to make you believe you’re this broken thing. You were broken, Indiana, but not for the reasons they have built inside you.”
“I’ve killed people because of him,” she thought. Her mind fogged as though she couldn’t see past what was coming. She saw the storm front coming toward her.
Hector thought for a moment. “Do you believe in fate?”
Indiana frowned and shook her head.
“You think you have two choices—kill him or be killed by Sword.” Hector shook his head. “My mother never liked two choices. Choose again. Find the path. Break free, Indiana,” the squire said. “There will be no way for you to return unless you break free. I can’t stay with you. There’s less of me here because of their regimen—there’d be none if you hadn’t resisted. Break free.”
“But I have to kill him.” Indiana fought against the fog in her mind. The rain came down in heavy sheets now, sweeping across the column. Thunder boomed, rising higher in pitch. Tabards and cloaks at first flapped in the oncoming wind, then hung in sheets of drenched wool, heavy and cumbersome. The river roiled angrily and rose impossibly fast. She turned to her squire, but Hector was gone. She looked around her, frantic at the loss of her brother. He’d fallen off his horse and was being swept down the river. Thunder buzzed in her ears.
* * *
Indiana was on the floor, having fallen from her bed. Damn. She heard the buzz of the intercom. She looked at her hands and was surprised to see how steady they were. Of course. It wasn’t the body that was the problem. It was the mind. Find the path. She slapped the intercom.
“Paragon,” she said.
“Sheath here. You’re late for the ready-room briefing,” Mara said. “Did you get the summons?”
“My suit was off, and I was resting. I’ll be there in five,” Paragon said.
“Everything all right?”
Paragon stared at the waveblade gouges. “Some lingering effects of the new regimen is all.”
“Do you need a session?”
Indiana thought about it and shook her head. “Maybe later. Might just be a one-time thing.”
Mara accepted this. “Time to be perfect.”
Indiana felt the pull of the magic words. “Time to be perfect,” she replied. Mara signed off.
Indiana splashed water on her face again, then checked herself in the mirror. Her hazel eyes were haunted, and she looked like hell. The new regimen was losing its hold on her without the drugs. With her training and manifest, the chemical effects were hard to measure. Flashes of her former self came through in her dreams in a haze of distance and time. Who was the squire in her dreams? Was he part of herself? Or was it Gal in the guise of her brother, Hector? She chewed her lip in thought. She knew who she was. There was a block deep in her mind that kept her from reconnecting with herself, and it had to do with him.
She felt heat come to her face and a trickle of adrenaline into her bloodstream. She closed her eyes and calmed herself. The mind makes the motions. After a moment, she’d calmed down sufficiently. She pulled on Red Hilt and went to the ready room.
* * *
The four other members of Sword met her there—Crossguard, Guard, Ricasso, and the new Pommel, Chevalier Madani. Pommel was fast but faltered outside of routine—she’d seen it in the Decanting Wing. She’d seen combat and still was a top-roster candidate. Being on Sword, while prestigious, didn’t mean you would always face combat. Mara and the rest of Sheath sat with them.
“Sword reporting,” Indiana said, helmet under her arm and sweat cooling on her skin. Red Hilt gleamed in her left hand. The walk from her apartment within Citadel had given her time to clear her mind and return it to its focused state. She wore the face of Paragon.
Mara turned and data filled the tactical screens. “It’s been twenty-four hours since we lost contact with Chev One. She took a half-centurion strike team to Motor Vessel Matrix Trigger in the Atlantic Ocean here. There was a storm at that location, but we have indications that one small-yield nuclear warhead was detonated.”
Ricasso frowned. “Then there’s no Chev One. Even fifty Chevaliers couldn’t survive a nuclear blast at ground zero. It’s just too much energy to absorb back into the grid.”
“The GCI is nuclear energy capable in the gigaton range,” Indiana replied. “It’s what allows Red Hilt to do what it does. I could absorb that much energy.”
“You can, but can anyone else?” Ricasso countered. There was no malice in his voice, but Indiana felt admiration mixed with jealousy. It was familiar to her; she’d experienced the same in the fencing circuit of her younger days. Younger days . . .
“Was either GCI active?” Guard asked, but the tactical displays showed that neither the northern nor southern GCI satellite had tracked over the area of effect.
Indiana held up a hand. “We wouldn’t have been called here if Chev One was dead. What do you have?”
Mara nodded. “Since Kiev and the attack on Chev One, we’ve been making changes. One, we’ve sped up the keying of Perilous’s Decommissioning Center. Two, Citadel and Perilous are having their power plants and grid systems hardened against EMP attacks. We already have redundant and independent power from their respective national power grids, but we’ll need resiliency. Three, we outfitted Chev One with an inactive transponder that can withstand multiple EMP pulses and activate at the discretion of Chev One. If she’s dead, it will automatically transmit on a timer.”
