Pillars of light and fir.., p.93
PILLARS OF LIGHT AND FIRE: THE COMPLETE SERIES, page 93
“What is it?”
Gavin smiled wryly. “It’s a phone.”
“Really?” Morgan picked up the box and yanked the pull tab. She tipped the box on end, and the device fell into her open palm. It was a phone, but unlike anything she’d ever seen before. It was a touchscreen, bulky and utilitarian. There was a note taped to the front. It read, “We need to talk. —A. M.” in taut, perfect handwriting. The flowing, tight curves told Morgan it was a woman’s hand.
Morgan realized she’d been holding her breath. She tossed the phone and box onto the bench like something had bitten her. “Anora Myrrdin,” Morgan said. She had to have known about the Paladin at Perilous. “This is one of her terminals.”
“What should we do with it?” Gavin picked it up.
“Destroy it when you have the resources. Never let it out of the Faraday until then. I spent almost a year purging our computer systems.”
“Don’t you want to know what she has to say?”
“I want nothing except her technology,” Morgan said, her voice rising. She unclenched her fist and closed her eyes for a second.
“It could be useful technology—”
“No, Gavin. It’s a Trojan. A means of gaining unfettered access to our systems. Myrrdin is a computer genius. Don’t underestimate her ability. You walked this into our building. No telling what she may have compromised in the meantime.”
“That seems hardly—”
“There are case studies where computers have been compromised using ultrasonic communications,” one scientist said. Gavin flashed him an angry look.
Morgan put up a hand. “Leave it until it’s destroyed.” She looked around. “Where’s the suit?”
“I have it in a clean room, undergoing testing. It’s extensively damaged—”
“Does the suit operate?”
“No.”
“Find out what you can.” Morgan put a hand on Gavin’s arm. “You didn’t have to come back. Your mother . . .”
“There wasn’t a reason to stay,” Gavin said. He looked tired and older than she’d ever seen him. While he and Jeri were the same age, his unflagging work ethic had taken its toll on him. His hair was already graying.
“Don’t push yourself.”
“I have a new focal design we need to test,” Gavin said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s the most promising prototype yet.”
Morgan debated telling Gavin to take time off, but if she could withstand a direct bomb attack and still keep at her job, he knew he could do no less. The door opened, and she left Gavin in the vault and went down the flight of stairs to the lowest level of the Citadel, rarely used but well maintained. Originally it had been used for the recovery of new Chevaliers until they had built the Decanting Wing. Now it would house what they’d been planning all along—Paladins.
They came to the first of a short row of doors in simple reinforced concrete. Beside each door was a closed-circuit TV with infrared images. A figure sat there with a hood over its head. Morgan gathered her thoughts on how to approach this. If he had a part in the kidnapping of her son, then this would be a difficult matter.
“Is the team ready?” Morgan asked Payam.
“Standing by.”
“Bring the lights up,” Morgan said to the Chevalier guards. The cell was like a plush minimalist apartment. The door clicked as the smooth bolt slid back and opened outward to reveal a man wearing loose scrubs, handcuffs, and a hood.
“You can take the hood off,” Morgan said. The Chevaliers complied.
Tristram Stonebear Cygnet blinked at the room around him and looked at Morgan.
Morgan hid her surprise behind a winning smile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cygnet.”
“It’s all right. With the exception of the handcuffs and hood, it has been a pleasant experience.” He stood and took in the room. “You have nice accommodations.”
“You were expecting a torture chamber? A dungeon?”
“The thought crossed my mind. Is this the place you call Lockdown?”
“Lockdown is more of a procedure than a place. Anora keeps tabs, I see.”
T. S. shrugged and examined his clothes. They had stripped off his suit and replaced it with scrubs that were loose and comfortable, like pajamas.
Morgan motioned for one of the two Chevaliers to unlock his cuffs. He rubbed his wrists and rubbed the ache in his shoulders. T. S. gave the woman a smile, but the Chevalier gave him a dead stare.
“Would you like a drink?” Morgan asked, nodding to Payam, who left the cell.
“I’d prefer a smoke if you have them.”
“Smoking causes cancer.”
“We all have our vices, I’m afraid.”
“Cigarettes and young women?”
“Guilty as charged.”
Her assistant returned carrying a satchel and placed it on the low teak table along one wall.
“Your clothing, minus your focal tech and suit. The suit’s damaged beyond repair.”
“That’s a shame.” T. S. went to the satchel, ignoring the watchful Chevaliers. He rooted through his clothing. “I got it off in time before it immolated. Helluva a time getting it off. Singed some of my clothes.” He showed her the blackened collar of the shirt he’d been wearing. He pulled out his pack of cigarillos and lighter. “Do you mind?”
Another attendant brought a small bar in. “Not as long as you don’t mind having a drink with me.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having. I’m curious about how cordial an arrangement this is. I am a Paladin.”
“That makes two curious people, Mr. Cygnet.”
T. S. lit his cigarillo, closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his wrists as Morgan studied him. T. S. Cygnet was as lean and tall as ever. He evoked a sense of worldliness in the way he carried himself. He had Cherokee heritage, which he leveraged as much as he did his Southern roots. He had high cheekbones, and his skin was warm and weather-beaten from years of climbing mountain peaks and assailing hard-to-reach places. He was an adventurer, if she believed his early books. There wasn’t much in them that was impossible, though some of it was perhaps improbable. His hair was shoulder length, and although the temples were shot with silver, it was as black and shiny as a raven’s wing. He still sported a Vandyke and his face was as angular as his body, giving it a handsome, rugged quality. Morgan likened him to a young Clint Eastwood with all the wrong coloring.
His dark eyes flicked to her bare hands as he relished the cigarillo. She enjoyed the brief assumptions on his face as he considered that she might be an augment.
Morgan poured a finger of bourbon for each of them and she handed him a tumbler. “It had never been verified until now. I thought it was your relationship with Miss Marks that allowed you to report on the lives of the Paladins. You really are a Paladin.”
“Guilty as charged,” T. S. said, taking the drink and winking at Payam.
Morgan sat down in a chair. “I’ve read your new book.”
“I am flattered.” T. S. explored the room. “I like this place. Very New York studio, minus the windows. I like the colors, too. Warm and comforting.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“How much of this is for my benefit and how much is for the US government?” He stared at the light fixtures, picking out the hidden cameras.
“The US government doesn’t know about this place. It used to be the decanting area once we moved the tanks from Brightwork Two. After we built the Decanting Wing, I decided this needed a refresh. I like that it still means comfort. Glad I could keep that sensibility.”
“I like the bed, but there’s no kitchen.”
“It’s not really an apartment.” Morgan drank.
He opened his arms, the cigarillo between his lips. “Aren’t you concerned about your son?”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
“You’re asking the questions in the wrong order.”
Morgan fixed him with an inscrutable gaze. “You want me to ask for your accounting of events.”
“Seems logical. I was at the scene of the crime, so to speak. I appreciate you not torturing me for the information. I’d tell you if you asked me.”
Morgan played with the lip of her glass. “Do the Paladins have my son? Do they have Leto?”
“No.”
Morgan again motioned for Payam, who handed her a tablet. She swiped on it and handed it to him. T. S. put down the tumbler and watched the grid-drone footage with interest. The convoy of vehicles approached the hangar. A white-suited individual got out of the vehicle with men in black gear. Then the Chevaliers went down. The angle was from overhead and partly obscured by the hangar roof.
“There’s your proof.” He handed the tablet back. “That’s not a Paladin.”
“Why wouldn’t it be a Paladin?”
“Paladins fly. Why would we drive a car? Or ride in one?”
“It’s not my plan. It’s yours,” Morgan said, watching and weighing this Paladin’s words.
“You didn’t get to be head of one of the most powerful organizations on the planet by jumping to conclusions,” T. S. said after a moment.
Morgan touched her nose and drank. This man was not as dense as he would have had people believe.
T. S. picked up his drink and swallowed its contents. “As for your first question, yes, I wasn’t a Paladin. I was an Echo candidate at Project Avallach. I was a failure—unable to manifest and generate energy above the fiducial level. The measurable spectrum.”
“Old news. That part I know.”
Payam refilled T. S.’s tumbler.
“I’m starting with what you know because it’s true, and then I’ll tell you what you don’t know, madam.”
“Morgan.”
“If you insist, Ms. LaFayette.”
“Now that we know what you really are, that changes things, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does, at that.” T. S. sat down.
He appraised her, as many men seemed to do, like she was a jewel. He knew the value of a woman who was smart, powerful, and good-looking. She crossed her legs and leaned forward. Show him interest. Still, she held her breath in anticipation.
He took another drink. “About a month after I left Avallach, Arthur got back in touch with me. He . . . did something. Jump-started my powers. But I didn’t have my focal rings anymore, so what was the point?”
“Arthur?” Morgan was surprised.
“The media at large have no proof, but you and I know who was on the Bridges that night six years ago.”
Morgan exhaled. This was news. She’d had the real Arthur stabbed and tossed off another bridge that same night. She focused on the problem and held the mask. “Really? He granted you power like that?” She snapped her fingers.
“Back then it was. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with Avallach after Tintagel, but a year after that, Isolde brought me new rings and . . . well, a man can’t say no to a beautiful young woman.” T. S. had a faraway look in his eyes. One Morgan knew all too well. It was something she could exploit, perhaps.
“Can anyone be jump-started?”
“Anyone who’s come out of the god pods. What do you call them here? Tanks?”
“Tanks.”
“Anyone who’s come out of the tanks and isn’t damaged. You wouldn’t want to jump-start someone who has brain damage or a chemical imbalance, shall we say.”
“I see. And can anyone jump-start a failure?”
“I’ve only seen Arthur do it, so I think no one else could. And he hasn’t jump-started anyone since the Bridges.”
“Why is that? Too dangerous?”
T. S. smiled. “Well, you might have to torture me for that one. I’m not at liberty to say. It’s something you have to go through yourself.” He took another drag and looked down at his hand.
Morgan feared she might have given him too much leeway.
“Would it be too much trouble to—”
“Why are you really here?” Morgan asked, making her voice cold and formal.
“I’m here because your people—”
“If the Paladins don’t have my son, why are you here? Why were you at the airfield? Is it something the Oracle predicted?”
“I was there. I saw him taken, but I hadn’t planned—”
“Were you there to take him away from me?”
T. S. laughed. “Really? You think after all these years we couldn’t just take him when we wanted to?”
“You presume too much.”
“And you assume too little, Ms. LaFayette. My business with your son is my concern, not yours.”
“I rather think you’re a plant to gain my confidence.”
T. S. chortled. “I didn’t think someone would be this paranoid, but Anora warned me you’d see through that right away.”
Morgan smiled. “So, you are here for a reason.” Her Chevaliers moved closer yet remained unthreatening.
He held up his hand. “Not under the circumstances I thought would pan out, no.” He took the cigarillo from his lip and looked at the tip. He finished the drink.
Morgan laughed. “Oh, you will like what I have for you, then. No, Mr. Cygnet, I don’t have to torture you. I don’t even have to ask you to comply with my wishes.”
T. S. stared at his cigarillo, looking uncomfortable. She had him. He pretended he was on an equal footing, but that footing was an illusion. Morgan handed the tablet back to Payam, which was the signal.
A trio of medical personnel in lab coats walked in.
“Here’s how it will work, Mr. Cygnet.” Morgan stood up. “You will get a scrambler.”
“Why would I submit to that?” T. S. said. He stubbed his cigarillo out on the tabletop, marring its beautiful finish.
“I have something stronger than your own motives—something more powerful than the bidding of Anora or even Arthur.”
The Chevaliers grabbed him by the arms, and he fought them. They manifested and their strength was double his. Their gauntlets were like iron on his forearms. He kicked the medical tech who came for him. One Chevalier punched him in the gut. The wind went out of him and he deflated in pain. The second struck his chest with a blue phased waveblade, meant to light up his nervous system but not harm him otherwise.
He broke free of the one Chevalier’s grip and kicked the second one’s foot, tripping him up. He lunged for Morgan.
The second lance hit him in the back of the neck, and he crumpled. He crawled toward her, his nervous system seizing up. “Why?” he croaked.
Morgan put her glass down and squatted next to him as her Chevaliers held him down with a knee in his back. “Because when I tell you what my leverage is, you’ll want to kill me. I won’t take that chance. You will help me in whatever I need.”
“No,” he hissed, and she watched his body convulse.
“Yes. I have Isolde Marks.”
“You. Bitch . . .”
One technician shaved the base of his skull and swabbed the bare spot. They wheeled in the gurney and prepped him for the minor surgery as Morgan watched. She’d seen this all before.
17
Eyewitness Report
MARYLAND CITY, MD—
“It’s good to see you again,” Morgan said when T. S.’s eyes fluttered open.
“The feeling is not mutual,” T. S. groaned. He lay facedown on the bed. It would have been comfortable except for the pain radiating like heat in his skull. He carefully explored the back of his head with his fingertips. The insertion point was painful and warm through the bandage placed there. The local anesthetic must’ve worn off. His ears rang, and he wondered if it was from the micro-drill boring into his skull. He was at her mercy now. Damn her. Damn Arthur. “Scrambler?”
“Yes. The feeling of pressure will wear off in a few days and the bone will regrow.”
“You make a compelling argument.” He rolled onto his side and looked at her. He was still in the room and Morgan still sat in front of him. He wondered how long he’d been out, but Morgan no longer wore the dark suit. She’d traded it in for something that was more . . . Chevalier-like. It wasn’t quite a uniform, but more like a battleship-gray, flexibly cut pantsuit.
“Why are you here?” Morgan asked.
T. S. ground his teeth. “Isolde.”
Morgan leaned back and crossed her legs. “She’s safe, for now.”
“Where?”
“At Perilous, being attended by the best doctors LaFayette can bring to bear. That I can bring to bear.”
“Doctors?”
“She was exposed to a large dose of radiation. Her suit protected her from alpha and beta radiation, and she’s been decontaminated as much as possible.”
“That you exposed her to.”
Morgan waited. She would not volunteer information. Fine, T. S. thought. He’d fill in the gaps for her.
“Your little mousetrap worked. You have three Paladins now.”
“Two. There were two Paladins in the tunnels, but we only recovered Marks.”
T. S. frowned. Losing Domino wouldn’t go over well with Arthur, but damn, he was already in a jam because of him. Still, he couldn’t help feeling sorry that Arthur might’ve lost another sister. His thoughts drifted back to Isolde. “She’s all right?”
“She’s in a coma. Not induced by us. We’re not sure what happened in the tunnels, but whatever she did, she did to herself. I’ve read her medical evaluation, and she should, by all rights, recover.”
“I want to see her.”
“Once they clear her with medical, I can have her transported here to the Citadel. That I can promise you.”
T. S. ran his fingers through his hair, barely able to hold back his anger. Isolde. Isolde! “All right. I was sent here to watch over Leto.”
Morgan’s lips were a thin line. “Why?”
“You know why, LaFayette.” T. S. stood and stretched, rubbing his aching back. Neural overload made him feel his age, and the pain in his skull didn’t help. “You suspect the Paladins of kidnapping him?”
“I do.”
“And the proof is what? Grainy footage of a white-suited figure.”
Morgan glared. “I’m not playing games, Cygnet. I want my son back.”
