A flush swept across my face then flooded its way down my back, at first blood warm, then turning icy cold. My fingertips felt heavy, a dangerous sign. It took me more than a few moments to bring myself back under some semblance of control. "Let me get this straight," I finally ground out. "You'd take some runny-nosed, green-as-grass kid over someone with over twenty years of field experience simply because he has a silly little scrap of paper from some no-name college and I don't?"
I'll give that clerk some credit; she took the glare that had made more than one combat trooper squirm, and stared just as stonily right back. "I'm sorry sir, but our employment policies specifically state that we can't consider a person for this type of position unless they have a college degree." She paused to riffle through some papers. "There is, however, a position available on our cleaning staff--"
"Lady, is this firm traded on the open market?"
The Personnel clerk blinked, knocked off-balance by the sudden change of subject. "Um, you mean traded on the stock exchange? Well, uh, yes--"
"Thank you," I replied, cutting her off "that's nice to know, because you've just given me a great tip on an excellent short." With that, I spun on my heel and stalked out of the building, out into the dreary weather of a Midwestern February. Upon reaching the parking lot, I took the luxury of smashing my fist into the trunk of an innocent oak tree before climbing back into my battered little car. Once there I sighed and rubbed my eyes, then stared out at the gray skies as I slowly forced myself to relax.
Cleaning staff.
Jeez.
I gave my head a little shake, then, muttering to myself in disgust, flipped open the notepad that lay upon the passenger's seat and drew a line through yet another entry on the list. Bloody civilian firms. I wouldn't have even been talking to them except NSA was under a hiring freeze. Langley was in the midst of another mole scandal and wasn't even answering their phone.
Hard times in the spook market, I guess.
I closed the notepad and sat back, absently chewing the end of my pen as I thought of Dithra and what she had said to me the last time we spoke. Her offer of protection had been a sincere one, I had no doubt, but against the full weight of the entire Council it had little to recommend it beyond that sincerity. No, it would be better to lose myself within the seemingly endless ocean that was humanity, where Ksstha and the others dared not move against me openly. Lose myself, find a place to live….
Get a job.
I glanced down at the notepad again, made a face, and tossed it back onto the other seat. I sat there and pondered a bit more, absently trying to massage some semblance of warmth into my aching left arm. I really hated to use the Old Boy Network so soon; it smacked of defeat. But I didn't think I'd be able to stomach this crap for much longer without breaking something, or someone...and if I went through what just happened again, I might even say to hell with it and chow down…. I started the engine on my little car, trying to ignore the puff of blue smoke the worn engine produced as I did so, and drove off to find a phone.
"So, find anything yet?"
I chuckled bitterly, leaned back in my seat, cheap vinyl creaking beneath my backside. I took a deep pull on my glass of Merlot before answering. "Oh, yeah; lots of things, most of them with a mop as part of the job description." I set the glass down and gave the lanky, tweed-clad geek across the table from me a cynical smile. "There was one, though, that sounded interesting. This heavy manufacturer over on the north side wanted me to take all their UNIX and Windoze machines, integrate them all into a real-time network, and then extend that net out onto the factory floor so they could have automated process control of their machining equipment."
Schmoo blinked at me from behind his thick glasses. "Hey, that sounds pretty good. You going after it?"
"Not till they offer something a bit better than eighteen a year, I'm not."
Schmoo almost choked on his wine. "What?"
I smiled at the expression on his face. "Yup; eighteen a year. I was making twenty in my last year of service, and these pukes are offering eighteen. They're going to be waiting a long time before they fill that slot."
"No joke." Schmoo dabbed at his face with his napkin. I watched him, feeling better than I had in days. No, of course Schmoo isn't his real name, but it's the nickname that's stuck after all the years of him showing up at just the right time with just the right thing to make everything come out okay, just like the little critters of Li'l Abner fame. He'd been one of my few friends back during the ghastly years of my teens, and had remained so even after I had left home to go soldiering and he became, of all things, a librarian, got married, built a house, lived happily ever after. As the years went by I'd drop in from time to time, and he and I would compare notes. Occasionally he'd show some regret for his quiet life, for which I'd promptly call him a fool.
"Got a little secret I'll let you in on," he continued as he tossed his paper napkin onto the tiny table. "You know why everybody's wanting people with a college diploma these days? 'Cause college kids are dumb," he chuckled, answering his own riddle before I had a chance to. "They haven't the experience to know when they're getting ripped-off by some asshole employer offering peanuts, unlike us older guys. Most times, the diploma's just an excuse to get away with some perfectly legal age discrimination. So don't hate the kids, man; they're getting screwed just as thoroughly as you are." My friend sipped again at his wine. "Anyway, anything I can do to help? I'm not sure there's all that much over at the university, but I could--"
I waved him off. "Don't worry about me; I called up a sergeant-major I know in one of the local reserve units. He's seeing what kind of strings he can pull."
Schmoo looked dubious. "Think he'll find something?"
"I hope so. There doesn't seem to be anyone he doesn't know in this town, though, so I'm inclined to be optimistic." I tipped the bottle over my almost-empty glass, frowned when nothing emerged. "Out again. Another?"
Schmoo chuckled. "Naw; I think three bottles're plenty. It's going to be hard enough to find the door as it is." He worked his way to his feet, peered owlishly down at me. "Hey, why is it you can just soak this stuff up like a sponge and hardly get a buzz?"
I smiled conspirationally at him as I wormed my way out of the cramped little booth. "Want to know my secret? It's because I'm not really human. I'm actually a dragon in disguise."
Schmoo seemed to think that terribly funny. "Well, that explains a few things," he chortled. "C'mon, let's get out of here before my wife comes looking for me."
I took him back to my little bungalow, stuffed him into his own car, and waved as he drove off in the general direction of home. A few moments after Schmoo's brake lights disappeared around the curve, an all-too familiar figure separated itself from the shadows and approached me.
Damn. For just a few hours Schmoo had helped me forget, had lifted the weight from my shoulders. Now it came crashing back down, its burden seeming all the more crushing after the short respite. "Stefan," I sighed, almost whining, "it's late, I'm tired, and more than a little drunk. Couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"
The ex-Stasi agent's eyes were cold as he sized me up, the corner of his mouth twisting slightly in disgust as he caught the stink of alcohol on my breath. "No, my Lord, I'm afraid it cannot." He turned and indicated a big black BMW sitting by the curb not too far away. "Lady Dithra wishes to have a word with you."
The chill, leaden feeling in my left side intensified as I surveyed his grim features. Stefan didn't need to be wearing his proper form for me to read the emotions boiling within him, and any additional protests on my part died, stillborn. I meekly climbed into the passenger's side, silently grateful as I sank into the vehicle's leather upholstery that the agent would be driving, giving Stefan's eyes something to do besides boring holes into the side of my head.
The trip was surprisingly short; up and over the ridge, down into the other river valley, scarcely five miles from my little bungalow huddled next to the railroad tracks. The architecture, however, was radically different. We drove down a small, two-lane road past large estates and lovingly tended landscapes, then up into a driveway flanked by high walls of quarried stone. Stefan did something, and the ornate, somewhat rusty wrought-iron gates swung ponderously aside. As we wound our way up the long, cobblestoned drive I stared out my window, contemplating the neglected, winter-blasted gardens that slid by, my thoughts equally bleak.
The house was a huge stone Gothic affair, built years ago by a local real estate tycoon who never had a chance to live in it, as shortly after its completion it turned out that the man's success was due more to fraud than talent. For years it stood vacant, an enormous white elephant until now, and as I stared up into the dimly lit windows I pondered the wealth and power capable of transferring such vast structures on such short notice.
"My Lord, please." I blinked, turned, and trudged towards the place's oversized door, where Stefan waited. Before entering, though, I turned to Dithra's agent, but whatever I was going to say to him fled from his icy face. Wordlessly I went in.
What did I expect inside? Scuffed, trash-strewn floors, cobwebs, a water stain or two, perhaps a few abandoned pieces of furniture scattered here and there, either covered with dust or draped with grimy sheets that made them look like misshapen ghosts sulking sullenly in the shadows. Instead, I found the place spotlessly clean and warmly lit, gleaming floors of hardwood and marble stretching in all directions, the rooms fully furnished and decorated in a rich, elegant and personal style that would have left an interior decorator weeping for joy.
For the fifth time in as many minutes I blinked in amazement as Stefan led me into a vast, deserted chamber that for lack of a better name I'll call a living room and left me there to await Dithra. The space was done in a medieval fashion complete with a huge, roaring fireplace and high, beamed ceilings, the polished hardwood floor softened by a large centered square of plush white carpeting upon which a number of well-worn, pleasantly mismatched pieces of comfortable-looking furniture were scattered. On the walls were more than a few paintings, mostly of landscapes, their pigments cracked and darkened with age, and a handful of framed photographs. I wandered about the room, studied one of those black-and-white photos. It showed a woman in a dress fashionable in the 1930s standing on a dusty hill, nameless mountains rising in the background. Another, equally anonymous, was of some ancient castle ruin perched precariously atop some forested peak. Set both parallel and perpendicular to the walls were numerous bookshelves/display cases constructed of long, thick panes of glass and filled with various knickknacks. Some of the items were obviously valuable, such as the large Oriental vase of porcelain so thin it was positively translucent; others, like the glass dish containing a handful of brownish pottery fragments, seemingly worthless. Another case held what looked to be some sort of crude helmet and dagger made of bronze, green with age, both half-melted as if from some terrible heat.
Further on. . .I paused, staring at the set of Samurai blades where they lay within the case upon their simple stand of black-lacquered wood. Both the katana and wakizashi were old, so old that age seemed to radiate from them like a gentle warmth. The decoration and knotwork of the grips, only slightly dimmed with the years, were lavish yet quite functional. Breath escaped from me in a long sigh at the sight of those ancient and utterly beautiful weapons. Somehow, without any really conscious thought on my part I found my hands inside the cabinet, sliding beneath the katana's dark, sheathed length, beginning to gently lift the sword from it's resting place. . . .
"It is said that the master that created that blade was quite mad." I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of that voice from behind me. Feeling like some kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, I gingerly set that marvelous sword back down on its stand and turned, surreptitiously wiping my hands on my trousers, my face warm.
"It is also said that the weapons he made were accursed, that they possessed an uncontrollable thirst for blood, and in time would come to rule their wielder." Dithra smiled, though her eyes remained cool. "Perhaps there is a grain of truth in the legend, for in the end, nearly all of the weapons he made were hunted down and destroyed. This--" She reached her slender hand into the glass case, her fingers hovering over the dark scabbard, but not touching"-- is one of the few that still survive."
Beware, beware the dragon's hoard. . . . I swallowed, then inclined my head in respect. "My Lady."
"Dear Hasai." Again she smiled, again it did not touch her eyes. She turned, one arm lifting to gesture towards the furniture nearer the fireplace. "Come. Sit with me."
With a feeling of apprehension I plunked down upon a sofa, Dithra seating herself with a graceful swirl of her long, gray-green dress in the chair across from me. There was a long pause at that point, during which Dithra slowly tilted her head in a dragon's expression of inquiry, one of her elegant eyebrows arching quizzically, her eyes still cool.
Finally I could stand it no more. Fighting to shove the last of the cobwebs from my befuddled head, I cleared my throat. "You were aware of the situation down there, of course?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Then you know that Ksstha had me pinned inside the base. Once I left it, I knew it would be but a matter of time before he pounced, at the place and under the circumstances of his choosing."
"He spoke with you there. What exactly did he say to you?"
I hesitated, looked away, then after a few moments brought my eyes back to Dithra's. . . . . .Slashed in a thousand places, his eyes red ruin from their weapons, he cried out in a voice so filled with despair that I hear it even now, and fell dead, leaving me alone. With them. . . . "I'm sorry, my Lady; but mostly it was a private conversation."
Dithra studied me, an indecipherable expression upon her face. "But you did tell Stefan."
"Only the portions of tactical significance," I sighed. "Ksstha attempted to get me to come over to his side, even dangled a few small incentives in front of me, like North America and my own Line." Dithra blinked at that; I smiled wryly. "Yeah; can you believe it? The whole bloody continent for myself and my Line, to do with as I wished. Forever." I shook my head. "There's still something inside of me, somewhere, that still screams curses at me for having turned it down."
"A continent, and formal recognition of your own Line," Dithra repeated, her eyes distant. "There are many of us who would be sorely. . .tempted, by such an offer." Her gaze came back to me. "And yet you turned it down."
"Yes, my Lady."
For a moment I thought Dithra was going to ask me why, but she stopped herself, that indecipherable look coming to her face again for a moment. Then her eyes dropped to study the floor between us. When she again looked up, her gaze was far warmer than it had been. "What happened then?" she asked quietly.
"We talked a bit more, then he apologized for what he felt he had to do next, then left."
"I see." Pause. "Ksstha gives you formal warning, and then you seemingly ignore that warning and expose yourself in such a manner that invites attack?" Dithra's head tilted again, a slight edge creeping into her voice. "Dear Hasai, to myself your actions smack of insane recklessness. Perhaps you can put a better face upon them?"
I grimaced, then sighed. "My Lady, please believe me that I took Ksstha's threat quite seriously, especially after I talked to Stefan about it. Stefan himself was so concerned, he offered to. . .distract Ksstha to buy me the time I needed to get out of the country."
I settled back into the sofa and deliberately let my voice carry through the room. The place was seemingly empty save for Dithra and myself, but I strongly suspected we had another, unseen party to our conversation. "I couldn't let Stefan do it; Ksstha strikes me as being far too canny to allow himself to fall victim to something so obvious. He would have destroyed Stefan despite his best efforts, and continue to zero in on me. Stefan's sacrifice would have been worthless, and I will not see good people thrown away for nothing; not for myself, or anything else. I had to come up with another way, and quickly.
"My Lady, in the realm of conflict, one of the worst mistakes one can possibly make is to allow your adversary to choose the time and the place. If I had simply fled, if I had allowed Stefan to make his sacrifice, all I would have done was delay the inevitable, and cede all control of the situation over to Ksstha. So, instead, I chose the time and place."
Dithra stared at me. I leaned forward, putting as much intensity as I could into my expression. "I gave Ksstha a situation so in-line with what he needed that he had no choice but to accept, for such an opportunity could quite possibly never come again. So, he attacked, but at my time and my place, lacking not only those advantages, but a third, even more crucial advantage that he sorely needed; the element of surprise."
Dithra's eyes were lost in thought as I completed my spiel, pondering the strange military logic of the situation. "So; you were ready for him," she said at last.
"Yes, my Lady; just as ready as I could make myself."
"If this was indeed so, Hasai, then I find myself with two questions." Dithra leaned forward slightly, her eyes intent. "First; why did you not take Stefan with you, and, second; if you were so well prepared, why did Ksstha survive the encounter?"