THEAH 2000



Home
Broken Glass
CHAPTER 1 -- PARALLAX
CHAPTER 2 -- IMMINENCE
CHAPTER 3 -- ACCELERATION
CHAPTER 4 -- IMPACT
CHAPTER 5 -- DIFFUSION
CHAPTER 6 - ABSORPTION
CHAPTER 7 - CONSUMATION
CHAPTER 8 - GESTATION (Double-Wide)
CHAPTER 9 -- THE FIRST
CHAPTER 10 -- THE SECOND
OTHER TALES
RESOURCES
CARDS (CCG)
STUFF
CHAPTER 1 -- PARALLAX

Tertius 1, 2000 AV

"No one realizes how small a first step is.  It has been my experience that many do not even realize when they have taken it." - Derwyddon

Schuyler Postema sat down on the decrepit, threadbare recliner, with a great, heaving sigh.  There was a Trots beer sitting on the chipped, nearly firewood-quality endtable next to the recliner.  He gazed at it for a moment.  "I got fired today," he mused.  "I could use a drink."  He rummaged about in his pocket for his switchblade, flicked it open, swung it about by its finger-ring until the blade pointed downwards, then stabbed the can open.  Licking the blade clean, he sheathed it and shoved it back into his pocket before taking a swallow of beer.  "Theus, I hate warm beer."  It was small comfort.  He pressed the can against his forehead and swore he wouldn't think about dropping a toaster in the bathtub while he was in it.

"Sky," called a voice from the kitchen.  "You're home early."

"I know," the young Vendel moaned, staring at the ceiling of the tiny apartment.  "I got fired today."

Out from the kitchen came one of the apartment's other three inhabitants, Alene Van Hartesfordt.  "You didn't."

"I did," he confirmed, closing his eyes.  He was quite certain he didn't
want to see the look on Alene's face.

"Three Prophets on a whetting stone, Sky, that's four jobs in a year!  Four!"

"I know," he replied.

"What was it this time?  Mouthing off to your supervisor?  Scaring off customers?  What?"  Schuyler was right.  Whenever Alene's voice rose an octave with every sequential question, you didn't want to look her in the eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I do!  You couldn't hold a job if your life depended on it, Sky!  I wouldn't be shocked to see a file cabinet down at the unemployment office dedicated entirely to you!"

What little patience Schuyler had with mankind was rapidly disappearing.  As rapidly as his hand was slowly crushing the Trots can he was holding.  Warm beer ran down his hand.  "Sky, I can't deal with this.  Mina and Gregor won't for much longer either.  I don't know what's wrong, but you have to iron it out.  Soon.  You need -"

"SHUT UP!" Schuyler bellowed.  It was his intent to punch the wall next to the chair.  That was his intent.

He instead punched straight through the wall, his arm coming clear out the other side, raining bits of plaster on the stove in the kitchen.

For a moment, Schuyler and Alene sat and stood, stunned, staring at the hole in the wall and Schuyler's arm through it.  At the beer and blood from Schuyler's hand covering the wall, the floor, and the stove.  But especially at the blood, when it started to move.

<(_-|-_)>

"Yes, mother," Donata Corelli sighed, beating a brisk pace down the sidewalks of Numa's business district.  "Everything is going well.  The Ministry of Defense was nice, for a department run by complete and utter idiotas.  Yes, they were thrilled to hear about our support.  No, I didn't ask.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes!  I'm going to see you in two days, can it wait until then?"  One handed cradled her cellular phone, so the hand carrying her briefcase went up to hail the taxi.  Two refused, already carrying passengers, but the third stopped, door obligingly swinging open for the Vodacce woman.

Donata stepped inside, finishing her phone call with a "Grazie, mother.  Goodbye.  Enjoy your flight.  Bring me some cheese."  She clapped the phone shut and leaned her head back against the headrest of the seat, sighing heavily.

The driver swivelled in his seat, turning to face her.  "Where to, la-"  He stopped abruptly, seeing the loom-pin on the lapel of her custom-tailored blazer.  Clearing his throat and speaking in a much more respectful voice, he continued "What address, signorina?"

Not looking up, nor totally suprised she had drawn that reaction from him, she said only "The airport.  Yesterday."

The driver very carefully drove as quickly as he possibly could to the airport.  The trip was silent.

Donata stared at her sunglasses as she took them off.  On the very edges of the frames, the molded plastic was set to resemble spiders spinning bas-relief webs across the plastic holding the lenses in.  Always there are reminders, she thought.  You are Ruota.  You are strega.  The world is lost without you.

Donata never asked for her position.  When her aunt Isabella retired in a month's time, the title of Centrara would fall on her shoulders.  She would be among the most powerful women in the world, second only to Avalon's queen.  Donata wasn't a politician, like auntie Bella, or fantastically rich, like her mother.  She was, however, more than adept at Sorte.  Other strega had measured the strands at her birth, and found them long, strong, and tied to many others.

Sometimes Donata wondered why her considerable talent had placed her at the head of the Ruota.  The world was rolling past sorcery at a phenomenal rate.  Few if any took Sorte seriously outside of Vodacce, and even inside the
nation there was cause for doubt.  Most assumed it was merely excellent political acumen, covered with prestidigitation and theatrics.

No one failed to take the Ruota seriously, though.  While the sorcerous power of the consortium was in doubt, the political and economic power was not.  Everyone on Theah had to think about the Ruota at what point or another, if for no other reason than the Ruota might be interested in what you might be doing.  And the Ruota almost always knows what you're doing.

And soon, Donata would be at the head of the organization.

"We're here, signorina," the driver said.  Donata looked up, then donned her sunglasses again.  The driver didn't expect to be paid (many courtesies are extended to Ruota, and amnesty from such charges is one), but he smiled politely when Donata shoved a fistful of lira past the driver's side window.  Her flight was in an hour, but considering Geno, he would probably arrive with her luggage with three minutes left before the plane departed.  Donata didn't think of herself as overtly competent when it came to dealing with things, but it seemed that everyone around her was so incompetent.  She always felt out of place, like no one truthfully expected her to be somewhere at the time she was.  At least, she did until the visions crashed straight into her forebrain.

<(_-|-_)>

The case made a thunderous sound as it was dropped on the floor in front of Graham MacGowan and his brother Lugh.  The two boys panted heavily, having lugged the huge chest down from the attic.  They looked up to their grandparents as the dusted that fell from it settled onto the floor of the house in northern Inismore.  Their family had taken them here so that Graham could see his family one last time before departing for Triomphal University in Montaigne, just as Lugh would in another two years.  Lugh, however, wouldn't rewarded with the contents of a strange chest.

Laughter echoed from other parts of the house; this was a typical reunion for the Connell family.  The looks on Patrick and Ethyl Connell's faces said they considered the chest and its contents deadly serious.

"Now, Graham, Lugh, I know we've never really talked," Patrick said, kneeling before the chest.  "I cannae say I was terribly pleased with Molly's choice of husband."  That was an understatement.  On two occasions, he and Graham's father had come to blows.  "But I did swear on my mother's grave to honor his father's last request.  Your other grandfather gave me this before he died."

Ethyl Connell sat nearby, next to Graham, one hand on his shoulder.  "We never knew what Duncan did for a living.  But we do know that when he was on his deathbed, Kitty invited us to come.  Molly gave us the look that said we'd better come.  So we did."

Patrick pulled forth a great iron key, one that probably weighed more than most whole keychains from a strongbox sitting on the floor nearby.  On the three times in his life he had been here prior, Graham had always wondered at the contents of the strongbox sitting on the desk in his grandfather's study.  Patrick inserted in each of the locks on the chest in turn, giving it a full turn to the left.  Each lock squealed piteously before yielding.  When all thirteen were undone, the latches were pulled loose and the great lid lifted off.

Inside rested a box, almost as long as the chest.  Carefully, Graham hoisted it out.  It was solid oak, sealed carefully and painted red, with the exception of the white Prophet's Cross on one end of the top, and a Highland family crest on the other.  The crest showed a gold wolf standing inside the family's motto.  The motto read, simply: "Fear nothing."

Setting it carefully on the floor next to the chest, Graham pulled up on the top of the box, and after a moment of resistance, it gave, sliding away silently.  The smell came next, a sharp, fierce odor that conjured up thoughts of the forest.  Once the lid was completely away, the brilliance nearly blinded the four of them.

Inside rested a sword, a greatsword.  Easily meter and a third in length, it shone brilliantly in the fading light of the setting sun.  Hilt and blade were polished to where it looked as though was only an hour out of the forge.  The handle was bound tightly with leather, carefully wrapped and stapled in place by metal pins.  The on the blade rested a single symbol, the same horseshoe-like shape that framed the crest on the lid, with the same words carved on it.

Jaw slack at the vision, Graham reached forth and took the sword by the handle, hefting its weight, turning the blade skyward.  The mirror-shine of the blade cast brilliance about the room.

"Amazing," Ethyl breathed, staring at the sword.

"Yeah," Graham managed to eke out.

"There's a letter with it," Lugh pointed out, plucking it from its position under the lid.  Unfolding the yellowed paper, he began to read.  "'Dear Graham, I am sorry I had so little time to spend with you here on Terra, but Theus has called me away, and I cannot refuse Him.  So my legacy to you is this, the Fearchara.  Graham, you and your brother and your father are all descended from the Lynch clan. Indirectly, albeit, but our lineage can be traced back directly to Connor Lynch, the last man who held the name without dispute of creditability before or after the MacEarchen diaspora.  This blade has laid low more demons than you've taken breaths, and Theus willing it will continue to do so.  This sword is an amazing weapon, but it carries a heavy burden with it.  I never regretted taking it up when I did thirty years ago, and I don't know as I lay dying of Legion's poison in my chest.  The only strega I've ever me took one look at me and this sword and said "You are a conduit.  That is an axle.  One day, it will hold up a wheel."  I still don't know what she meant, but you have to understand, she wouldn't've told me that unless it was important.  Take this sword, and may Theus favor your hand, Duncan MacGowan.'"  Lugh's eyes flickered up.

"How odd," Patrick said, leaning back and looking at the blade.  "I always knew Duncan wasn't always well in the head, but-"

"Hush, Pat," Ethyl shushed, dismissing his words.  "Let Graham enjoy his gift."

<(_-|-_)>

Jacqueline propped her feet up on the seat ahead of her, picked up an apple out of her carry-on bag and began peeling it with her boot knife.  At twenty-three, she was probably the youngest person on the plane.  The eight or so other passengers on the flight were, in all likelihood, ambassadors or businessmen, having travelled to her home nation to see what they could acquire or work out with the tiny, postage-stamp country.  And judging from the frowns and knitted brows of the majority of passengers, they got as much as everyone else who went to the People's Republic of Gossia did.

Jacqueline wore a smile because she was leaving.  She loved her country - she truly did - but being stuck on an island barely large enough to be included on a map for her entire life was beginning to wear on her.  She wanted to see the world, not just read about it through carefully edited books.  It took some doing to dupe security at the airport, but Devin promised her credentials would be indistinguishable from the genuine article.

Never having been in an airport was no help, either.  Still, she was on the plane, which was just now leaving sight of the island-nation, there was nothing anyone could do to stop her any more.  By hook or by crook, she was going to see every country on the continent, and maybe even the Crescent countries, if she could.  Admittedly, she had no plan on as to HOW she was going to go about this, but she'd work that out later.  Cross bridges when you come to them, her father always said.  Well, she was approaching her bridge to Montaigne very shortly.

"Miss?" said a flight attendent.  "I'm going to have to ask you to put your feet down."

Jacqueline sat up slightly, still peeling the apple, and looked around.  "For who?  You can't tell me someone's going to be sitting in that seat."

The flight attendent hesitated before answering.  "All passengers are required to keep their feet on the floor while the plane is in flight."

"Why?  I'm not bothering anyone."

"I realize that, miss, but we still need you to-"

"No, you don't.  You're just bored because you have nothing to do and there're only seven people on this flight.  If you're bored, here."  She rooted around in her bag for a moment and handed the flight attendent the book RIGHT TO RULE, a text on politics and government written by Antonio Bernoulli almost three hundred years ago.  "Take up some reading.  Expand your mind.  Think outside the bubble."

Flustered, the flight attendent left hurriedly.  Theus, I hate flying already, she thought.

<(_-|-_)>

Ernst Kramer hated Fifteen.  It was an irritating game cooked up by the Montaigne.  It was cumbersome, nonportable, and worst of all, his men loved playing it.  Every night of off-duty, the lot of them were all perched around the green felt tables of any pub, bar, or brothel that had the game.  And tonight they were in Montaigne, so it was even worse.  You couldn't walk down the street without finding a Fifteen table.

Ernst stared at his beer.  At least, he thought it was beer.  By all appearences, the Montaigne wouldn't know beer if it whirled about and bit them on the arse.  The Inish had some idea, and the Vodacce had made some progress, but the best beers on the continent still came from Eisen, with a possible concession to the Vendel for blatantly copying Eisen techniques.  He downed another swallow.  The smoke of the Montaigne cigarettes permeated the air.  Ernst wouldn't've noticed if he wasn't trying so damned hard to quit.

Supposedly, their new employer would be meeting them tonight.  Ah, the romantic and splendoured life of a mercenary, Ernst mused.  Being kept waiting for hours by some preening businessman with no understanding of your livelihood who needs your services because he isn't smart enough to spend half as much money as is required to hire you on an assassin to take out his competition.  Ah, stupidity abounds.

There was a cracking sound.  Ernst looked up.  Aeron, one of his men, was laying on the ground, bleeding.  A Montaigne thug was standing over him, holding a broken Fifteen cue.

Someone screamed "FIGHT!" in Montaigne.

Ernst didn't even have to look to see what was going on behind him.  Spinning on his stool, Ernst grabbed the barrel of the bartender's shotgun before he could even think of aiming it.  One sharp yank took it out of the bartener's hands, and a crosswise swing cracked the stock across his jaw, sending him down in a heap.

Upon looking back, he saw there was indeed a fight.  His men were outnumbered two to one, but he sincerely doubted any of the Montaigne here were trained soldiers.  Judging from the unconcious bodies piling up on the floor, he saw he was right.  One good right hook sent most men sprawling, if thrown correctly.  And Ernst made sure all of his men new how to handle themselves when there were no weapons about.

Emptying the shells out of the shotgun, Ernst strode forwards into the fray.  The first man to look at him wrong got the stock upside the head, just like the bartender.  Two more went down to solid kicks in the chest, and the last man he had to lay hands on was laid low to simple nerve pinch on his neck.  By this time, the Montaigne were either lying down in a heap or leaving very quickly.  All of his men were still standing, except for Aeron, who was being hoisted up by Wilhelm, and Dietrich, who was using a paper towel from behind the bar to staunch the bleeding coming from his brow, where a broken bottle was raked.

"Is everyone fine?" Ernst asked, looking around.  Nods came from everyone.

Applause from one set of hands across the room sounded, a bit out of place amidst the muttering of the mercenaries and the staticy music of the piped-in radio system (rendered faulty because one of the Montaigne was thrown against the unit).

"Brilliant.  I arrived halfway through the demonstration, but what I've seen has rendered me very confident in your skills, gentlemen," said a voice that had a thick Vodacce accent but spoke Eisen well.  A Vodacce gentleman, impeccably attired and flanked by two larger such men, stepped over the fallen body of Montaigne gracefully, extending a hand to Ernst Kramer.  "Good evening, Herr Kramer.  I trust you are well this evening."

"Herr Trilliani?" Ernst asked, shaking his hand after setting down the shotgun.  "I am as well as I can be."  A pause.  "Or should I say Don Trilliani?"

The Vodacce smiled.  "You have temerity, Herr Kramer.  But I won't hold that against you.  You may call me whatever you wish. It is not as though I am a private citizen any more."

Ernst didn't have to look to see that his men formed up behind him.  They recognized Pietro Trilliani, even in the dim light of the bar.  When an international organized crime lord walks into the room, you take notice.  "So, tell me, Herr Trilliani, why have you elected to discuss our contract . . . here?"

"A curious man," Trilliani noted, to no one.  "Dangerous.  But I will give you time to break yourself of your habits."  He cleared his throat, and smoothed his immaculately sculpted hair.  He was wearing gloves.  Black leather gloves.  "I find that discussing things in person tends to go more flawlessly in quainter," he looked to the Montaigne lying on the floor, "settings.  Small, waterfront bars, for instance."  He reached into his coat's pocket, and pulled out a trifolded paper, fifteen sheets thick and stapled.  "These are the terms of your service."

Ernst took the contract wordlessly, opened it, and pored over the pages, taking exactly three minutes to read each page.  He closed it.  "Five years of service, standard bodyguard duties, and we each get paid enough feed an entire Third World country for three decades.  What aren't you telling us?"

Trilliani didn't look at all upset that Ernst didn't trust him.  "My men are becoming untrustworthy.  I have . . . internal security working on most of the matters within the families, but I want to oversee the replacement of my own personal bodyguards myself.  And I trust mercenaries implicitly . . . I know how you can be bought."

Ernst looked at the contract again, then back to his men.  Twenty still-stone stares came back to him.  Every last one said the same thing with his eyes.  This is a mission like any other.  It doesn't matter if it's Pietro Trilliani.  Ernst smiled.  Not one of them flickered or balked at serving one of the most hated men in the free world.

Ernst took a pen out of his pocket and signed the last page of the contract.

<(_-|-_)>

Royce shifted his position on the stone bier that served as the lip of the fountain in front of le College d'Aristique.  Studying Renovationist art was hardly his favorite thing to do after his last class on any given day of the week, but he found during his first year if he didn't study first and play later, he'd never end up studying.
 
He reached beside himself for his highlighter.  He cursed silently when he remembered he didn't bring it with him.  He wondered for a moment.  Where would it be?  On his desk in his room, no doubt.  Leaning over, he reached down towards the fountain's water, but his hand never got wet.  He instead reached through reality, tearing a Porte hole in the space he stuck his arm a little further down, rummaging across his desk (where most of his blooded items rested) for a highlighter.  Once his hand closed around it, he pulled his arm back through, hole closing with a wet slap behind his fingers.  Satisfied, he went back to studying, this time able to delineate particularly important-sounding passages.
 
He was careful about his use of Porte because he was on a college campus, one of the two most likely places in the world to find people who didn't approve of sorcery.  Not that right-minded people thought of Porte as sorcery.  It was just science no one understood yet.  And the Ministry of Science would find out what it was eventually.  And then people like Royce would be a dime a dozen, once the government figured out how to crank them out like cheap plastic toys.  Royce hoped that Porte could be used to make everyone's life easier, but he wasn't sure how he felt about it rubbing his identity out.  As long as he could use Porte, he was something special.  At least, he liked being special until he turned eighteen.  Then the very ugly truth about his parentage came through.  The man and woman he called Father and Mother his entire life were not his biological parents.  That was evident when he turned twelve, and began to demonstrate considerable talent with Porte, whereas both of his parents had anything but.  He was all right with being adopted . . . he wasn't about to complain about that, as he imagined the alternate fate was much worse.  He thought it was until he learned that there was no other choice.
 
Royce wasn't born, he was decanted.  He was concieved in a test tube, and carried to term in a machine not looking terribly different from an iron lung.  His birth was the result of a scientific breeding program attempting to isolate the gene that renders one able to use Porte.  He was in the fifteenth such "batch" of test-tube babies, and the fourth successful one.  The first eleven failures . . . most didn't live very long.  Those that did weren't very pleasant to look on.  And after telling Royce all of this, the government came to him, asking for the ingredients for the next generation.  Royce couldn't bring himself to refuse . . . a free ride through college is a free ride through college . . . but he felt a sense of loss knowing somewhere, he might have two-year-old sons and daughters growing up, not knowing their heritage.  Still, as soon as he was done with his education, Royce was leaving Montaigne.  The State of the Coast would grant citizenship to anyone, provided they could first pass a simple background check.  And once on la Bucca, the Montaigne couldn't touch him for fear of bringing the rest of the Union of Western Powers down on them like a hammer.  For once, it would feel good to have the law on his side.
 
But that would only happen when he finished his education, and to do that, he'd have to pass this exam on Renovationist history.
 

<(_-|-_)>

The grey figure sat, brushing her hair idly.  She had attendents for that sort of thing, but she hated being treated like royalty all the time.  There were somethings a woman needed to do herself, and she always found brushing her long, grey hair therapeutic.  Grey is not the right word.  Anyone who laid eyes upon her hair would swear it was silver, or platinum, or iron, or some other iteration of a lustrous grey.  To her, it was grey.
 
She continued to brush her hair, watching the pool of water set in the table before her.  "Show me the bear," she said simply, and the pool complied, shimmering and rippling.  A Ussuran woman, of age indeterminable, but undeniably beautiful, appeared on the water, speaking with her superiors.   Clasped in her hands was a manilla folder with the name "Black Cross" on the tab.  "Tasya, Tasya, Tasya," the grey figure tutted, shaking her head. "Leave them alone.  They don't want any part of you."  A hesitation.  "Show me the lion."  The pool obliged again, whisking away Ekaternava and replacing it with Carleon.  An Avaloni woman sat, listening intently.  She looked eerily similar to the Ussuran, though the similarities were predominantly poise and demeanor.  "Good, Gwen.  We must learn from our mistakes, mustn't we?"
 
She paused again, setting down her brush.  "Show me Westin."

<(_-|-_)>

Alexander Westin was having a damn good day.  Two wheel kicks had bought his team both of their goals, while the other football team sat with a zero on their portion of the scoreboard.  It was sheer luck he was in the right place to receive both kicks, but it was his skill alone that put the both past the goalie.  Theus, I'm going to be Man of the Match for three games in a row again, he thought, wiping the sweat off his face with a towel obligingly held out by one of the towel boys.  Note to self: buy a taser to hold off the paparazzi.  Setting the towel back in the waiting youth's hands, he sat down beside his teammates, glad for the rest.  Upon sitting, he didn't feel quite right.  Rising and checking his seat again, he found a manila envelope on it, addressed to him.  Curious, he opened it and pulled out the documents, expecting another company crawling through the dirt to have him hock their products.  His heart stopped when he saw what it was.
 
"Mother of Theus," he whispered, thumbing past the documents one by one.  Most of it was legal rhetoric, the documents one must have served when involved in an incident such as this.  But those at the end told the complete story.
 
He was being suspended.

<(_-|-_)>

"You're in the Montaigne Foreign Legion?" Hassad asked, shuffling forms hurriedly.
 
"Oui," Catrice replied.
 
"But aren't you Montaigne?  Why aren't you in a different branch?"
 
Catrice sighed.  This was the thirtieth time she had to explain this situation in this weekend alone.  "By citizenship, I am Castillian.  I was naturalized when I married my husband seven years ago.  So when I wanted to come back to the Navy, I couldn't legally join any branch unless it was under the Foreign Legion's shadow."
 
"Oh," Hassad replied.  "Is your husband also a military man?"
 
"He was."
 
"Was?"
 
"He died three months ago."
 
Hassad spend about a minute trying to pry his foot out of his mouth.  "I'm sorry."
 
"Was it your fault?"
 
" . . . No."
 
"Then don't be.  Now, is everything in order?"
 
The Crescent official started as though surprised.  "Yes, of course."  He handed her passport and papers back after stamping them hurriedly.  Reshouldering her duffel bag, Catrice cursed mentally.  I hate this country.
 
During her original service with the Montaigne Navy, Catrice had been stationed in Kardobbia, far to the west in what used to be the Crescent Empire once, long ago.  For a week.  Kardobbia was traditionally a nation with a frosty approach to foreign policy, and the most recently kowtowing of the Montaigne Senate to the tiny Crescent country for a chance to get a hold of some of its vast resources of petroleum gave it the opportunity to opt for the expulsion of all extranationals from its borders.  Recently being seven years ago.  If it weren't for Catrice's required reassignment to Barcino, she never would have met her husband, Juan Lopez.  And she wouldn't have had her heart broken when he was thrown overboard and drowned during a fairly routine safety drill in training his fellow seamen.
 
She tried returning to the navy, but as a nationalized Castillian, her only choice was in the Foreign Legion.  And they assigned her straight back to Kardobbia, despite her protests.  With the recent score of brushfire wars in the Crescent region, the political situation and borders were about as stable as winter in the Trade Sea.  Consequently, the Union of Western Powers decided it would be in the best interests of the Crescent region (and their own oil supply) that they retain a military presence in the area in case the situation required a firm right hand (otherwise, the Union was completely happy to let the Crescent nations fight each other into exhaustion so that they could march in during the aftermath and be the great benevolent heroes everyone heard they were but never truthfully witnessed).

And who did the Montaigne send on this noble errand?  The Foreign Legion.
 
And it was ridiculously hot here, too.

<(_-|-_)>

Zivon ducked on a hunch, and found his intuition was correct when a throwing knife went sailing over his head and imbedded in the wall behind him, sinking two inches into the hardwood.  He watched Rachanov for a second, expecting another such outburst, and when none was forthcoming, straightened, smoothing out his suit.
 
Vasili Rachanov considered punishing Zivon for ducking to avoid the knife, but he supposed the man couldn't fathom how truly upset he was, and thus decided that he wasn't worthy of the extra effort.  Flexing his fingers in an attempt to isolate the rage causing them to shake, he sat down at his desk and said "Very slowly, Zivon.  Tell me why Trilliani is still alive."
 
"Apparently, Don Rachanov, Don Trilliani has an excellent sense of loyalty," Zivon began, watching his superior's hands for any more lethal implements.
"Every time we try to 'treat' one of his associates, he finds out about it and has them eliminated."
 
"I know that, Hergov.  WHY can he do that?"
 
"I don't know yet, Don Rachanov, but I am working on it."
 
"You're working on it?"  Rachanov's teeth-grinding was almost audible across the room.  "I don't care how he does it, just get him to stop!  That or find some way to get someone past him."
 
Zivon began to say something, then forced his mouth shut.  Saying anything else would likely make his situation worse.  He spun smartly and saw himself out quickly.
 
Vasili sank into the chair in his office with a heavy sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.  "Trilliani.  How do you do it?"  It had taken a mere six months to get a man in every district in Avalon and a good number in the Marches and Inismore, but trying to penetrate a system where corruption was rampant, not just the order-of-the-day seemed like trying to order Matushka to do something.  He turned to look at the map on the rightmost corner of his desk.  Blue pins with a stylized P covered a third of the map, while red pins with an N covered half, the remaining fraction covered by green V pins.  P for Patlow, his territory.  N for Numa, Trilliani's sphere.  V for Bonifacius Vehl and his little slip of an empire.  Vehl could be reasoned with, maybe even flattered into a position under Rachanov.  Trilliani, on the other hand . . . the man wanted a war in Artidenot, then he'd have it.

<(_-|-_)>

Erica's eyes flickered all over the room.  It was a plain affair, gray and empty.  The Vodacce and his two, monstrous goons stood at the far end, watching Erica, her fellow bodyguard, and their client enter.  Erica and her party were all smaller than their hosts, an irritating situation.  People so often equated height with authority.  And because of this, people found Erica threatening.
 
Though the three Vodacce were larger than her, that took some doing.  Erica stood taller than most men flat out, just a hair under 2 meters.  In her youth, it had been awkward being the girl in her class who could (and often did) manhandle most of the boys with little difficulty.  In the army, it, combined with her natural athleticism and ruthless attitude, was a benefit.  She was proud when she was promoted to the Violet Guard of Gossia.  She served for three years in the Vaticine City, protecting the Heirophant's person.  Then she was dishonorably discharged.  Now she was working as a bodyguard.  For scum.  Her normally acerbic attitude was now nothing but acid.  Still, one must eat.
 
The room was clean, if not the occupants.  Erica carried four pistols and two revolvers on her person at all times, and when on duty, a hanging rifle was concealed under her coat as well.  And there was the pair of semi-automatics (that weren't hidden) right on her hips.  Her fellow bodyguards sneered and called her ostentatious, but when Erica proved she could indeed shoot two oranges right out of their peels after they were tossed in two random directions at the same time, they quieted quickly.  The other bodyguards were all armed, though Erica recognized quite smugly, just from the way the goons crossed their arms that she had more artillery than anyone else in the room.  Combined.
 
Erica never cared what her clients did, but she always studied what was going on religiously.  Things that did bother her, though, were when government officials (like her current client) decided to consult privately with "lobbyists" in remote locations.  Like here, on a thrice-damned boat.  She never bothered watching the transactions that took place, it was none of her business and would probably bore her to tears.  Most often, Erica watched the bodyguards intently, trying to establish eye contact.  Most men fancied themselves masters of anything until proven wrong, and Erica found this particularly true of staring contests.  Since the Violet Guard trained her out of blinking, she'd take quite a few would-be toughs down just by making them squirm under her steely gaze.  In fact, she-
 
In two movements so swift they appeared to be one, her fellow bodyguard drew his pistol and rammed it into her client's ribs, squeezed off two shots, shouted something in Ussuran, and fled up the steep stairs to the deck.  Erica cursed.  The last thing she needed for a routine job was someone getting righteous and shooting her paycheck between his fat folds.  And, in typical paranoid reaction, the other party's bodyguards fumbled their weapons out.  Well, to most, it would appear as though they drew their weapons quite quickly, but to Erica, they were as slow and as clumsy as oxen.  By the time their hands were bringing their weapons forth from their holsters, she'd shot the wrists of two of the bodyguards, rendering them incapable of firing or even lifting a gun.  The third brought his semi-automatic to center on Erica the instant she swung her left gun to face him and trained the right on his employer.
 
For a moment, a stalemate occurred.  Erica began to walk backwards, which startled her opposition, but he didn't fire.  Putting a foot on the stairs, she began to climb the steps up out of the hold.  Her opponent didn't seem to take any great exception to that, despite the repeated cursings uttered by the two wounded guards.
 
Once Erica came out on deck, she was certain the world had gone insane.  Her coworker (well, soon to be ex-coworker) once on his knees, pistol dangling from an index finger.  The reason why was fairly obvious, he was being approached on all sides by a herd of well-armed men, most looking like the typical thugs Erica had heard of but never seen.  One, a giant barrel-chested mountain of a man, stepped up with practiced authority and took the pistol from the assassin's finger, then ordered him to stay put in Vodacce.  Not a thing you often heard in Avalon.
 
Upon seeing her, Mountain bellowed "Stop!" in Avalon, then in four other languages.  Erica weighed her stiuation.  There were eight men plus Mountain, not counting her former coworker.  She could handle this.  "Where's the money?" Mountain demanded, jamming the pistol into the assassin's temple.  "Tell me or I'll splatter his brains on the deck."
 
Erica almost chuckled.  It could not possibly be more amusing.  Swinging her guns about, she put one bullet through her coworker's head and another through Mountain's chest.  The other eight were stunned for a moment, but then swung their weapons about to perforate Erica with projectiles.  Crouching, Erica then sprang forward, directly into the midst of the men on deck.  As to her prediction, the majority of them forgot his mates were across the way, and in turning to aim at her were also aiming at themselves.  Erica hit the ground past the hold door with a heavy thud as bullets began whizzing over her head.  A trio of screams told her her gamble paid off.  Rolling to one side, Erica sprang to her feet, firing blindly to her left and right, hoping to scare the men into leaving quickly so as to avoid being shot.  When she heard three splashes, she new she was doing well.  Once she had her bearings, she aimed at the final two.
 
One, a Vodacce man, slender and cleaner than his compatriots, threw down his rifle immediately and made the unarmed gesture, falling to his knees.  The second began backing away, revolver still aimed at Erica, spouting to the Vodacce in his native language.  The Vodacce replied calmly, but said little.  Erica decided the second man was probably about to do something stupid.  She made as if to dodge to the right, and the second man's aim swung in that direction, just long enough for her to squeeze off a shot into his head.  He hit the yacht with an authoritative thud.
 
 "Bravissimo," the Vodacce said, regarding Erica with undisguised admiration.  "That was divine.  I'm hiring, are you interested in the position?"
 
 Erica blinked, unready for his sudden shift to Avaloni.  "I beg your pardon?"
 
"You have a command of armaments and combat that frightens me to the core.  You killed nine men, three of whom you didn't even have to shoot yourself, and there's not a scratch on you.  You're what, two meters tall, and scary as Legion himself.  We have need of a woman such as you."
 
"Who is 'we?'"
 
"The Blackhawks.  We're ambulatory extralegal nautical procurement specialists."
 
"You're thieves."
 
"Pirates.  Don't forget the 'nautical' portion."
 
"Pirates."  The skepticism was evident.
 
"Yes.  We take from the rich, because they usually don't deserve their money in the first place."
 
"Like Artidenot?"
 
"That's who we were robbing today?  Well, that wasn't too smart!  See, our current leadership is deficient."
 
On a hunch, Erica stepped forward and rammed her 9mm directly into the Vodacce's left nostril, tilting his head back.  "Yes, Artidenot," he supplied quickly.  "When we heard there was almost nine million pounds being exchanged here, we organized the little pincer attack you disassembled handily.  We were counting on killing everyone present so that the Vodacce Artidenot would blame it on the Ussuran families."
 
"Because?"
 
"War is imminent.  Vasili Rachanov wants Pietro Trilliani's head on a plate."
 
"And you know this how?"
 
"Many long hours spent sitting in cafés bribing lots of people."
 
"So, about this employment offer.  What position are we talking about?"
 
"Leader."
 
"You're not serious, are you?"
 
"Deadly.  I think the Hawks will rally behind a strong personage such as yourself.  With a little help from me, you could be our best leader ever.  I'm great for publicity."
 
"What do you get out of it?"
 
"I retain my current position."
 
Erica considered, then took a step back, removing her from the Vodacce's face but still keeping it trained on him.  "What's the appeal?  Do you enjoy being a toady?"
 
"I am not a toady.  I'm far too useful.  I'd rather be an apostle than the Prophet himself."
 
She made the connection.  "For instances such as this one."
 
"More or less," he shrugged.  "There's never a big price on the head of the second-in-command.  I'll take the occasional abuse if it means I can slip my head out from underneath the axe."
 
"Won't your current leader be a bit upset that I'm trying to usurp him?"
 
The Vodacce turned and looked at Mountain.  "He seems to have been shot through the heart.  I can't say I'm a terribly religious man, but I am fairly certain that death, being the end of life, means that the dead cannot return to pester the living disproportionately."
 
Erica considered.  She found herself growing to appreciate the Vodacce's dry humor.  Becoming a pirate certainly sounded better than he current alternatives.  If the Vodacce wasn't lying through his teeth to not get shot.  She lowered her guns, holstering the right, but keeping the left ready.  She extended her now empty hand to the man to help him up.  Hesitating at first, he took her hand and was hauled to his feet.  "What's your name, Vodacce?"
 
"Virgil," he grinned.  "Virgil Basto."
 
"Odd name."
 
"I named myself."
 
"You come from an odd family."
 
"I didn't have a family.  My mother overdosed on cocaine when I was four.  All I know about her is that she was a whore and not a legal resident of Avalon.  I was deported once they found me."  He paused a moment, the famous Vodacce half-smile creeping across his face.  "What's your name, Gossian?"
 
"Baine."
 
"Just Baine?"
 
"Erica Baine."  She rammed her pistol into Virgil's crotch.  "Captain Baine, Signore Basto.  If you ever call me by my first name, I'll crucify you.  Is that understood?"
 
"Of course," Virgil grinned after a momentary grimace.  "Understood, Captain.  Let's clean up a bit before we greet the men."

<(_-|-_)>

Juan Lopez hit the deck with a blunt thud.  He was lucky he wasn't dashed straight in half from the height at which he was dropped.  He rolled onto his stomach, hands touching the cold deck as he tried to right himself.  He coughed hoarsely, expelling what felt like three gallons of sea water. Someone laughed, clapping him on the back.
 
Lopez tried to get his mouth to work, but the best he could work out was a hoarse exhalation.  He looked up.  Snapping above him in the gale-force winds was a violet flag.