BACK AT HIS APARTMENT, Kane knelt beside the small equipment locker that was hidden behind the sagging couch, and worked the combination lock. He swung the door open and reached inside for the Sin Eater handgun that was stored there be- side its holster. With a heavy heart, he strapped the holster to his wrist and placed the compact pistol within. Kane didn’t like this. The gun would give him an edge over any attacker, especially if the redhead turned out to be as much of a whirling dervish as the tattooed warrior he had met in the street, but somehow he felt like he was making his way to an execution. Furthermore, he had a nasty feeling that it may just turn out to be his own, especially if the redhead was, as he was beginning to suspect, one of his jailers. Warily, he made his way from his apartment and headed to the address of the suspect.

  ABI SAT ON THE OLD couch in the main room, scraping the bowl balanced in her lap with a spoon. From her bedroom, Brigid leaned out of the wardrobe cubbyhole to check that her niece was all right. “Are you okay, ice cream monster?” she asked. Abi looked up, seeing Brigid’s face peering through the open door, and nodded as she licked the last specks of ice cream from her spoon. One advantage to living in a one-person apartment was it meant that Brigid could pretty much see everything that Abigail got up to. The downside, of course, was that Abi slept in the lounge, and the place could feel awfully cramped. And then there were the Magistrates—if they ever learned that Brigid Baptiste had an unregistered “lodger” here she’d be fined a heavy penalty, and Abi would probably be taken away from her. She couldn’t imagine how that would feel, couldn’t imagine ever letting go now. That was the single reason that Brigid had never tried to register herself as Abigail’s legal guardian, her fear that such status may not be conferred upon her. Brigid turned back to the computer screen, her voice loud as she called to Abi again. “Would you like anything else, munchkin?” “No, thank you,” Abi said in her pleasant singsong voice. “Can I play with the fume, Auntie?” “Well, okay,” Brigid decided, “but put your bowl in the sink first and don’t play for too long, okay?” Abi uh-huh’d back and Brigid began tapping at the computer’s keyboard once more, bringing to mind all the documents she had seen in her half day at the Historical Division. The words on the screen glowed back at her as she read them through the rectangular frames of her eyeglasses. “The quick brown fox never jumps over the lazy dog.” Had she just typed that? It seemed a strange thing to type, the old mnemonic, but she had to have. No one else was operating the computer but her, the device wasn’t networked, no one could obtain remote access. “The quick brown fox never jumps over the lazy dog.” “Never.” She knew the phrase by heart, and yet it nagged at her for a moment, as though there was some hidden meaning waiting to be revealed. “The quick brown fox.” “Never.” She shook her head and her finger hovered over the delete key, about to get rid of the silly, pointless phrase. Just then she heard a noise at her door, and Abi’s footfalls as her niece rushed to see who was coming in. Brigid’s apartment, like every other in Cobaltville, had no lock; it was a foundation stone of individual responsibility that ensured that all citizens of the ville were safe. Brigid stood up and shoved her chair across the room as she closed the wardrobe doors, hiding the illegal computer from sight. She stepped out from her bedroom, into the lounge that ran past the kitchen nook and straight to the front door, and saw the black-garbed Magistrate standing there. He was huge, towering over Abi’s tiny frame as she peered up at him. The man was dressed in street clothes but wearing his Sin Eater sidearm in a holster attached to his wrist. Oh, sweet baron, Brigid thought, they’ve come for Abi. “Abigail,” Brigid said warily, “come over here.” Abi looked over her shoulder, confusion on her face. “But I want to see…” “Abi, munchkin,” Brigid insisted, “come here, come stand with me.” Through his dark lenses, the Magistrate watched the little girl rush across the room to stand behind her aunt.

  Once Abi was with her, Brigid took a tentative step forward and smiled as best she could. “Can I help you, Magistrate?” “Are you Baptist?” The Magistrate barked the question like a command, his voice rough. Some of the terror dimmed from Brigid’s eyes then, and her playful humor emerged. “Are you asking my name or my religion?” she teased, her voice melodically husky. The Mag stood there, blocking the doorway, his face an emotionless mask. Something was blocking his thoughts, something making it hard to concentrate. “What?” he finally asked. “The way things are,” Brigid continued, feeling her confidence grow, “I presume you’re asking my name. It’s pronounced Bap-teest. Brigid Baptiste. Why didn’t you knock?” “I’m Magistrate Kane,” the Mag began. “And Magistrate Kane doesn’t have to knock?” Brigid pressed, determined to keep the intruder off balance. The Mag stood there, a huge presence in her tiny apartment, his body tense with a bubbling fury. “That’s right, Baptiste,” he growled. “Magistrate Kane doesn’t have to knock.” Brigid looked him up and down, peering over the rims of her glasses, wondering what to say. He seemed confused, and he hadn’t mentioned Abigail yet. “So, what can I do for you, Magistrate-Kane-who-doesn’t-have-to-knock?” Kane knew that he wasn’t controlling the situation as well as he should. Almost casually, he raised his right arm and the Sin Eater shot from its holster into his hand, the barrel pointed across the room at Brigid Baptiste. “Why don’t you start by telling me just what the hell you think you’re up to, Baptiste?” Brigid moved then, moved so quickly that she would look back and wonder that she had actually done so. She turned, shoving Abi through the doorway and into her bedroom, instructing her to hide and not come out until all of this was over. “What th—” Kane began, but Brigid was already darting across the small lounge, leaning down and scooping the little fume unit—no bigger than a base- ball—from the floor. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned him. “Or what?” Kane snarled. “Are you going to throw your kid’s toy at me?”

  Brigid looked at the fume, realizing that the Magistrate was right. It was not much bigger than her palm, made of plastic and weighed next to nothing. All the unit did was project images to the retina, giving Abi a huge playground to stir her imagination. Her own thoughts were in turmoil, emotions swinging back and forth, almost as if something had broken inside her. “I just want you to go,” Brigid said, “to leave us alone. Abigail’s a good girl, she doesn’t have anyone but me. You have to understand that.” “I don’t understand a word of it,” Kane admitted, thoroughly confused by the woman’s actions. “Won’t listen, you mean,” Brigid accused, glancing this way and that as though searching for another exit where Kane stood blocking the first. “You need to calm down, Baptiste,” Kane instructed, still pointing the gun in her direction. “Sit down, where I can see you.” “Where you can see me?” Brigid spat back. “Is that your idea of a joke? It’s a one-person apartment—I know that. But don’t take Abi from me, please. I’m all she has.” The woman was babbling about the girl, Kane realized, the cute little tyke he had seen at the Market Square, the one who had come to meet him at the door before this Baptiste woman had called her away. “I don’t care about the child,” he stated. “Of course you don’t,” Brigid said, her voice becoming strained with a mixture of fury and fear. “It’s just the rules, right? That’s why you have to take her away.” “No,” Kane said, “you misunderstand.” But as he began to explain, the leggy redhead ran at him, three steps across the lounge, swinging her clenched fist, fume and all, at his head. Kane sidestepped, bringing up a protective arm to shield his face, but Brigid was ready for him. Her foot had caught behind his leg, and as he stepped she shifted her weight, dropping him to the floor. Kane slammed against the floor, grunting as the air rushed from his lungs. Above, Brigid hurdled over his prone form and into the bedroom. “Abigail,” Brigid shouted, “come on, munchkin, we’re leaving. Right this instant.” Sitting on the bed picking at the bandage that ran along her arm, Abi peered at her aunt with wide, innocent eyes. “Now? Where are we going?” she asked. “Doesn’t matter,” Brigid said, and she scooped Abi from the bed and pushed her to the open doorway. “Outside, into the corridor, quick, quick.” Magistrate Kane stirred, shifting his body, pushing himself up into a crouch. “Halt!” he shouted. The girl with the honey-blond hair ran past him, slowing for just a second until Brigid urged her on with an urgent “Go, go!” Kane brought up the Sin Eater, taking aim at the retreating form of the little girl. Brigid’s heeled boot came crashing at his wrist, throwing his aim. “Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare do that!” Kane charged then, driving himself up off the floor and slamming into the woman’s stomach with his hard head. She staggered backward, her windmilling arms knocking a vase of flowers and a paperweight from the bookshelves before she slammed against the wall. Brigid’s left hand swung out, smacking into Kane’s neck with the flat edge of her palm. It was a nasty, painful blow, light but well placed into the little cluster of nerves there. He grunted and shook off the blow, bringing up his free hand to block her next attack. With his right hand he raised the Sin Eater pistol once more, bringing the gun up toward Brigid’s chest.“You know, you shape up pretty good for a bookworm,” Kane told her, a slight trace of admiration in his voice. In response, Brigid kicked out at him, the sharp toes of her boots digging into his shins, and he leaped backward. Brigid looked away from her opponent then, saw that Abigail was still standing in the doorway to the little apartment, watching the whole fight with worry drawn on her face. Her hand was on the bandage again, pulling at it nervously, her nails ripping at the scar beneath. Brigid saw the scar rupture then, a trickle of blood running along her niece’s arm. “No,” she cried. “Abi, don’t.” The Mag was on her again then, his hand snapping forward and slapping against Brigid’s breastbone, shoving her into the wall. His other hand, the one holding the gun, moved and Brigid’s breath burst out of her as he shoved the muzzle into her gut—hard. “Now, you quit wriggling,” Kane growled, “and together we’ll figure out if there’s any reason I should let you live.”

  Chapter 13

  Shizuka’s bare feet slapped against the hard surface of the main corridor as she sprinted toward the Cerberus ops room. It was past midnight, and the redoubt was down to a skeleton staff as the facility powered down for the night. As such, Shizuka found the main corridors empty, and she had taken the stairs two at a time to reach the wide ground-level corridor that led to the operations center itself. Sword in hand, she pulled at the large door and rushed into the operations room.

  “Where’s Lakesh?” she demanded breathlessly, looking around the large room with its twin aisles of computer terminals. The room was quiet, its lighting set to a pleasing dimness to suggest nighttime, and Shizuka saw only one figure in the room, sitting over by the mat-trans terminal. “Quickly,” the warrior woman demanded, “it is imperative that I speak with…” She stopped, the words turning sour on her tongue as the other figure in the room looked up at her. “Hello, Shizuka.” It was Brigid Baptiste, her vibrant red-gold hair framing her head like a halo in the subtle lighting, a thin smile on her lips. She looked, for all the world, like the cat who had got the cream. “What are you doing?” Shizuka watched warily as Brigid stood and took an unhurried step toward her, that self-satisfied smile never leaving her face. Shizuka calmed her breathing, her eyes on Brigid’s approaching form, using her other senses to check the room. They were alone—she was sure of it, just the two of them in the operations room. “Where is everyone, Brigid?” Shizuka asked. The woman looked like Brigid, that much was true, but Shizuka could feel the tension in the air, sense something askew, not quite right in the familiar movements of the other woman.

  The movements were right but the body language seemed aggressive, domineering. She tightened her grip around the hilt of her katana, preparing to defend herself once more. “They all went to bed, alas,” Brigid said, taking another slow pace toward Shizuka. “Boss’s orders.” “And Lakesh left with them? Left you alone?” Shizuka asked, shifting her right foot behind her to better secure her balance should she be called upon to fight this woman who looked like her friend. She couldn’t quite be sure, she told herself. It may be Brigid. It may just be her, and her battle with Grant, with the thing that wore Grant’s face, had scared her, made her overly suspicious, paranoid. Brigid’s smile widened. “Trent’s around somewhere,” she said, “and you just missed Skylar. What’s with the sword?” “I had a little run-in with trouble,” Shizuka said guardedly. “I think it would be best if I were to speak with Lakesh.” “No,” Brigid snapped, moving into swift action. Her foot whipped out and she clambered atop the desks as she made her way toward Shizuka at a dead run. Shizuka brought her left arm up, reaching out toward Brigid in perfect balance for the sword held behind her head in her right hand. She saw the rip on the left side of Brigid’s tunic then, the trickle of blood running across her porcelain skin, the scarlet mixing with the white material of the jumpsuit along its seam. Suddenly, the sword was swinging through the air, the steel blade whistling a musical note as it arced toward the woman who looked like Brigid Baptiste. At the last instant, Brigid was in the air, leaping high over the blade, her right leg snap- ping out and kicking Shizuka in the jaw. Shizuka was silent as the blow hit her in the face, and she staggered back just a single step as Brigid landed across from her. Shizuka watched the redhead spin toward her, readying her next attack. “Brigid,” she said, “if you’re in there somewhere I am truly sorry for what I am about to do.”

  Brigid looked imperiously at the shorter woman, and that contemptuous smirk crossed her lips once more. “I reckon you’d be pretty tough,” she said, sneering, “if you came full size.” As the words left her mouth, Brigid was already moving, a whirlwind of punching arms and kicking legs, driving Shizuka back, forcing her to give ground in the crammed walkways of the operations center. Shizuka cursed herself as she deftly avoided the rain of blows, cursed herself for not being ready to attack. She was a warrior, a samurai born and bred, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to attack Brigid. In her mind she knew that this thing, this familiar face, was her enemy now, but in her heart she wasn’t ready to accept it. “What are you?” Shizuka cried, swinging her sword toward Brigid, forcing the other woman to back away. Brigid just smiled, dismissing the question. Her hand touched Lakesh’s desk and came up with a sheaf of loose papers as Shizuka stood a few feet across from her. Instantly, Brigid flung the papers at Shizuka’s face, doing no harm but obscuring the samurai’s vision for just a moment. In that moment, Brigid stepped inside the reach of Shizuka’s katana, rendering the weapon clumsy and near useless, and her fist jabbed out at her opponent’s face, catching the higher ridge of bone above the woman’s left eye socket. Shizuka groaned, head snapping back with the impact. “Brigid, please,” Shizuka pleaded. “If you’re in there, try to stop this.” “If I’m in there?” Brigid mocked. “I’m all there is, you simpering piece of samurai filth!” She swung her fists again, smacking Shizuka in the face with her left, then her right, then the left again, pounding her senseless. Shizuka struggled away, pushing out with her free hand, not so much knocking Brigid away as shoving herself back. She concentrated on her breathing, shook her head, clearing it in a fraction of a second. It had been easier with Grant, she realized. The way he had treated her, tried to violate her, and the things he had said, things a lover should never say. But fighting Brigid was different. She didn’t know this woman the way she knew Grant, couldn’t shut off the fear that just maybe this really was her friend—broken, perhaps, but her friend nonetheless. Whatever the answer was, whatever the truth, Shizuka wouldn’t find it if she was dead. Grimly, she steadied her nerve and prepared to battle with Brigid once more. “I have to warn you,” Shizuka said, “I killed your friend and I’m not afraid now to kill again.” Pacing between the desks, Brigid circled Shizuka, darting as though to pounce and then stopping, edging back, laughing as Shizuka flinched. “On the contrary,” she mocked, “I think you’re very afraid. I think you’re wetting your little kimono wondering what’s about to happen to you.” Shizuka’s eyes narrowed as she watched the red-haired woman stalk around the room, waiting for her opportunity. Just then, the door opened and, from the corner of her eye, Shizuka saw the broad figure of Grant step into the ops room. Impossible—she had killed him. “Grant?” Shizuka asked, her eyes still on Brigid. “Is that you?” “You know it is, babe.” Grant’s voice, with its deep richness, was so familiar to her. Shizuka turned then, hoping, willing, praying that it was Grant, the real Grant, come at last to assist her, to protect her whether she asked it of him or not. Then she saw the man standing before the closed door. Grant had put on a pair of undershorts to preserve his modesty, before following her to the ops center. The dark skin of his bare chest glistened with sweat mixed with red runnels of blood, and besides the shorts, he wore a white bandage taped to his chest, just below his rib cage. The bandage puffed out, stanching the flow of blood from where Shizuka had driven the sword through his torso. As he moved, she saw that his left hand hung limply, twisted in on itself with a white stub showing where the ulna bone now poked through the flesh. He smiled, causing thick liquid to ooze from the hole where his ear had been, but his eyes blazed with a barely contained fury as he held Shizuka’s gaze. “Now, my darling Shizuka, why don’t you come back to bed?” he asked, a red wash of blood showing between his teeth as he spoke.“Get away from me,” Shizuka spat. “Get away from me, you abomination.” Brigid shoved one of the chairs at Shizuka then. It raced across the floor on its casters, and the samurai woman deftly avoided it. But the chair’s movement had distracted her for just one precious second, and when she looked up once more both Grant and Brigid Baptiste were upon her. Brigid high kicked, driving the toe of her boot into Shizuka’s stomach before following through with a brutal left hook to her face as her head sank forward. At the same time Grant grabbed Shizuka’s right hand—the one clutching the katana—in his. He didn’t bother trying to break her grip. Instead, he simply crushed, tighter and tighter, preventing Shizuka from moving the sword, the force of his strength making the bones in her hand crack as they tightened together. Shizuka cried out, flailing at Brigid with her free hand only to have it slapped aside by the fierce redhead as she renewed her attack. It wasn’t really a fight anymore; now it was just a beating. It took two minutes before the samurai finally collapsed on the floor, ultimately drifting from delirium into unconsciousness. “Do you think she’ll wake up?” Brigid asked Grant as she stood over their fallen foe. “Not for a long time,” Grant responded, assessing the bruised and bloodied face of the woman at his feet, “and by then it’ll be too late.” “Any idea how we should dispose of her?” Brigid asked. “We could use the mat- trans, but Trent is liable to walk in at any second.” As if on cue, the ops room door opened once again and Trent strolled in, holding two steaming cups of coffee and smiling amiably. He stopped suddenly, taking in the scene of carnage before him, the scattered files, the askew chairs and desks, the blood and the body. “What…happened here?” he asked, looking from Brigid to Grant to the bloody form of Shizuka lying on the floor between them. “Things got a little rowdy while you were gone,” Brigid said, leaning down and reaching for the bloodstained belt of Shizuka’s silk dressing gown. “Why don’t you come on in and join the party, son,” Grant growled, and he darted forward to fix his hand on the technician’s tunic, yanking the young man toward them. “What the…?” Trent babbled. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that Shiz—” Grant viciously backhanded the man, dropping Trent to his knees, silencing his questions in an instant. Then Brigid was behind him, the belt from Shizuka’s robe wrapped tightly in her hands, coiling around Trent’s throat and squeezing tighter and tighter until the technician could no longer draw breath. Trent blacked out, kicking wildly for a moment before he finally keeled over, his body still at last. Grant looked at the young technician’s unconscious body. “I was going to suggest we take Shizuka down to recycling, let her get mushed up into compost,” he told Brigid. “Figure she’ll have a friend there now, if she ever wakes up.” Brigid nodded. “One for sorrow, two for joy,” she said. Grant began to laugh in agreement, then he grimaced, sucking in his breath through clenched teeth. “You okay?” Brigid probed. Grant closed his eyes, letting the wave of pain pass through him. “She got me real good with that pig-sticker of hers,” he growled, his hand pushing firmly against the bandage he had applied to his abdomen. “I actually followed her here by the trail of blood her sword was dripping. That’s my blood, Brigid. Can you imagine that?” Brigid leaned closer to Grant, removing the bandage with delicate hands. “This needs proper medical attention, Grant,” she said after a moment. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”

 

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