Ardor's Leveche (3 page)

“And if he doesn’t?” she asked.

“The Storians appreciate women warriors,” the general assured her. “Most of them are assigned to the palace.” He cocked one thick shoulder. “Cushy assignment I would imagine.”

“Alejandro has an insatiable appetite for beautiful women and surrounds himself with them at every turn. Having one as lovely as you in his personal guard will ensure you close contact with the man,” Bowen explained.

A spark of irritation flitted through Ardor’s green eyes. “You want me to seduce King Alejandro?”

“If you have to,” the general answered. “Don’t spread ‘em unless you have to, Kahn, and even if it comes to that, make damned sure no Storian spore comes home with you. One knocked-up Riezell Guardian is more than enough!”

A bright flush infused Ardor’s face and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to keep from asking the men if they thought she had such lax morals that she would take on the assignment eagerly.

“And in case you are concerned about being found out, there isn’t much chance of that. The worst case scenario would be if the prison ship is intercepted by Lord Savidos, but the chances of that happening are almost nil,” Bowen said, getting up from his chair. He waved away Ardor’s attempt to come to attention. “We know you’ll do what you have to for Command. You’re the best agent we’ve got now and I have all the confidence in Domhan that you’ll do what needs to be done.”

“But, Sir…” she began, but Bowen reached out, took her forearm in his strong grip and turned her toward the door, walking with her to the portal.

“Save any further questions you might have until you’ve gone through the sublims lab this evening,” Bowen suggested. “I’m sure most—if not all—of your concerns will be addressed. If they aren’t, we’ll discuss it tomorrow before you board the penal transport.” He reached for her hand and shook it. “Congratulations on your promotion, Major Kahn. That rank is effective immediately but I’ll wait to pin those copper anchors on when you return from Stori.” He pumped her hand then released her, stepping back.

“I imagine I’ll be pinning on a heroic medal or two along with them!”

Ardor was gently pushed from the general’s office and as the door shut firmly behind her, she felt a trickle of unease wriggle down her spine. Walking past Miriam’s 14

Ardor’s Leveche

empty desk, she wondered if they’d still pin the insignia and medals on her if she was killed in the line of duty.

Or if there’d be a body
to
pin them on!

* * * * *

General Morrison and Colonel Bowen had moved over to the sitting area of the General’s opulent office and were relaxing in comfort—full snifters of rare Chrystallusian cherry brandy and fat, very expensive Spáinneach cigars in hand.

Bowen took a long pull on his cigar then laid his head along the back of his chair, holding the smoke in his lungs for quite some time before puckering his lips and blowing wispy rings into the air.

“What are you thinking, Kurt?” the general asked as he took a sip of brandy.

The colonel swirled his brandy around inside the snifter. “I have never liked or trusted medical interference with my people,” he said. “Kahn is a very capable agent. I would hate to lose her if something went wrong tonight.”

“What could go wrong?” the general asked, tapping the ash from his cigar into a crystal dish. “The med techs know what they are doing, Kurt.”

“I’m sure they do, Alphon, but I’m rather fond of Kahn and having them screw with her brain concerns me.”

The general sighed loudly. “Kurt, the implant is so small it is barely visible with the human eye. It will be placed carefully into Kahn’s brain with a minimum of invasion and when activated will send out—painlessly, I am assured—tiny responder wires into the lateral geniculate nucleus. I’m sure you remember your basic anatomy, don’t you?

The LGN picks up information from Kahn’s retina and processes it so whatever she sees, we will see through the implant’s transmission back to us.”

“All that is fine in theory, Alphon, but she could be blinded permanently by such an invasion of her thalamus should something go wrong,” Bowen said. “She could have a stroke or—the gods forbid—develop an aneurism that will kill her before we can intervene.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” the general stated.

“I understand why we couldn’t tell her what we are going to do, but I don’t have to like it. Now that Neff is no longer with us, Ardor is our Primary. I can’t afford to lose her.”

“We never inform our agents when we are forced to implant tracking or transponder devices secretly. They don’t need to know,” the general snapped. “It is a matter of security, Bowen. You know that!”

“But I don’t have to like it,” Bowen repeated. “It’s underhanded and damned invasive no matter how you cut it.” He frowned then drained the brandy in his snifter.

“Or insert it,” he said, placing the snifter on the end table.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Kahn will be a national hero when she returns from Stori,” the general reminded him. “She’ll not only receive those coveted copper anchors but she’ll be awarded the Meritorious Cross of Gallantry from Command, the Galaxian Defense Star and the Amethyst Prism for Courage.” He stabbed the air with his cigar. “What more could a warrioress ask for?”

Bowen’s jaw tightened before he spoke. “To not have those awards given to her posthumously.”

16

Ardor’s Leveche

The man the Storian fighters called Lord Savidos strode briskly through the corridors of the penal transport
Borstal
, barely noticing the ragged line of prisoners being ushered past him. The stench of dried blood, unwashed bodies and suppurating wounds wafted under his nostrils and it was all he could do to ignore the smells.

Framed within the pointed cowl of his flowing robe, behind the lightweight, matte silver mask hiding his true face, his dark amber gaze carried a red spark of fury. Intel given to him by his second-in-command had caused the anger radiating from his glare and with Death hovering over his shoulder, Lord Savidos was on his way to mete out punishment to the spy.

In his wake, the swirl of the black robe covering his tall six-foot-two-inch frame snapped as though the garment was a living thing. His hands were clenched into fists beneath black gloves—the fingers of which had been drawn to resemble a skeleton’s bony hand, the fleshless metacarpals and phalanges standing out in bold silver paint against the ebon leather. Where Lord Savidos walked, those around him stepped aside, pressing against the corridor walls, their faces turned to the titanium plating so the warrior would not see their fear and they could not see the horrible visage that glowered back at them from the robe’s hood.

Keeping pace a step back from his overlord, Major Raoul Breva swung his black gaze among the prisoners—searching for trouble, looking for something out of place, keenly attuned to everything around him. He had Lord Savidos’ back and Breva’s hand rested on the pommel of his lethal sword. Should trouble lash out at his overlord, Breva would step in to put down that trouble quickly and efficiently.

“There is no mistaking who she is?” Lord Savidos queried.

“Neff’s replacement,” Breva responded. “Without doubt.”

“You’ve cut her apart from the others?”

“Need you ask?” Breva drawled. His longtime association with the man walking ahead of him gave Raoul a measure of protection against the savage anger that such a question would normally elicit in his overlord.

“Did they insert an implant in her?”

“A retinal targeting device,” Breva replied. “It’s deep in the thalamus so we’ll have to wait until we get to Riezell Nine before we deactivate the damned thing.”

Lord Savidos stopped, putting out a hand to prevent Breva from walking into him.

“You think they might want a look at me?”

Breva smiled nastily. “Gonna give them one?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Beneath the mask, Lord Savidos’ voice was a dry husk of sound. “In all my gory glory,” he replied, then continued on down the corridor.

“I’d say they are more than likely just as interested in what the woman would have seen at Vespertine,” Breva commented. “They’d want to get King Alejandro’s assassination on vid-tape to replay it to the masses.”

“You are assuming I will allow her to live long enough to make it to Vespertine, Raoul.”

“Would it matter if she managed to carry out her assignment against the king?”

Once more Lord Savidos stopped. He turned around, facing his second-in-command. For a long moment, he stared into eyes that held no trace of fear or trepidation, only a mild curiosity.

“As much as I loathe the king, Raoul, it is my duty to preserve his corrupt life—

even if it would be better for our people if I allowed the Riezell Guardian to take that life.”

Breva grinned. “Just asking,
chanto
.”

“Besides,” Lord Savidos said as he commenced walking, “we have to protect the little prince, now don’t we?”

“You are assuming the silly fool doesn’t trip over his own big feet and break his neck before he can ascend the throne,” Breva said with a snort. He indicated the last cell on the left.

“You’d better hope he doesn’t, Raoul,” Lord Savidos returned with a snort, “unless you want to take that throne yourself.”

Horror flitted over Breva’s finely chiseled features. His black eyes opened wide, his mouth dropped open and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “Don’t even joke about such a thing,” he said in a low voice. “The gods have a way of punishing us for our irreverence.”

Lord Savidos grunted as he stopped at the locked cell door then cocked his chin for Breva to unlock it.

Ardor had been sitting alone in the pitch-black cell for over an hour. There were no amenities—not even a solid-plank bunk—upon which she could rest. Beneath her, the iron grating of the floor panels was as cold as a Sualannach whore’s tit and she had been shivering for much of the time. When she heard the scrape of boots outside the door, she tensed.

The cell opened with a clunk as the heavy door slid into its pneumatic rails. Light from the corridor speared into the cell causing Ardor to put an arm up to block the painful intrusion. She blinked, squinting against the brightness and could see nothing save the dark silhouettes of two figures outlined against the light.

“Major Ardor Kahn,” Breva growled, “get to your feet!”

The unease Ardor had been feeling escalated quickly to apprehension as her name was called out in a harsh, angry tone. She had been found out and now her life would 18

Ardor’s Leveche

be forfeit at the hands of the traitors. All she could do was to accept her end as bravely as she had been trained to do, with honor and courage. Slowly, she pushed up from the floor, her face half-turned from the intrusion of the light.

Breva stepped up to their prisoner and took her chin in his hand, jerking her face around. He anchored her head as his overlord came to stand beside him. Despite the squint of the woman’s eyes, the major was surprised at her unexpected beauty.

“Not half-bad for a Riezellian, eh?” Breva inquired.

Ardor’s back stiffened and she lifted her chin as high as she could in the taut grip of her captor. Although she could not see his face, she could make out a gleam in his eyes from the light reflecting off the titanium walls behind her and that put a chill down her spine.

“Not as lovely as I’ve heard it said Chastain Neff is, but it isn’t the face that counts, is it, Milord?” Breva asked.

There was a whisper of speech in a tongue Ardor did not understand from the other man who had entered the cell. He was nothing more than a black, bulky shape but he was—by far—the more menacing of the two. It was in the steely vibrations he was giving off, the essence of power and authority that radiated from him, and it set the hair to stirring on Ardor’s arms.

“My overlord says you might be moderately attractive if you weren’t a treacherous fox placed in his henhouse. He wishes a better look at you.”

Able to pull her chin from the first man’s grip, Ardor watched him slide like a will-o’-the-wisp from in front of her only to have the second man step up close, crowding her, his towering height and breadth of body intimidating and menacing.

There was a warm fragrance of cinnamon and musk coming from the tall one. That scent was almost intoxicating in a sultry, sly way. She could feel the heat of his body and the roughness of whatever garment he wore rasping against the bare arms she had instinctively crossed over her chest.

Staring into what she thought was his face, she was struck with dread when his eyes glowed crimson red, closed and then opened again to gaze fixedly at her. Once more the strange whisper of speech in that unknown tongue came from the deep depths of stygian blackness looking down at her.

“My overlord asks if you fear him, wench,” the first man translated the strange words.

Although her knees were threatening to buckle, Ardor knew the worst thing she could do was show fright to her enemies. That they would make good use of such an admission was a given. She was no coward and refused to behave as one.

“Tell your overlord I never fear what I cannot see,” she said, forcing her voice to be as strong and unwavering as she could make it.

She flinched for the man standing in front of her raised his hand, and for the first time she realized he was wearing a flowing robe of some sort for she could just make out the voluminous sleeve of the garment. Slowly, the lights came up in the cell from 19

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

near-total darkness, lit only from the spill of light from the corridor to dark gray then to duskiness. As the volume of light continued increasing, Ardor could see the man—nay, the
being
—who stood in front of her and for the first time in her life knew the true meaning of terror.

His face glowed an eerie silver-white in the wash from the lights brightening overhead. Deep, dark caverns rimmed eyes the color of spilled blood. His cheekbones were prominent, fleshless, and where his lips should have been, bare bone was peeled back to reveal two rows of sharp fangs gnashed together like threads on a zipper. There was no skin on that cinerary facelessness and when he lifted a hand, the stark contrast of his skeletal fingers against the black fabric of his robe brought a groan of horror to Ardor’s throat. So shocked was she at his appearance that Ardor did not realize it was a mask she had been staring at.