SANITY LINE
XIII. Sound and Fury
Though such gatherings were rare in recent memory, it was understandable in the interregnum that the Dean nobility had concerns, and likewise, the heir presumptive, Princess Laurel, was eager to soothe them. For that very reason, she had called the present convocation, and from her position on the Brass Throne, she could see every noble in the Kingdom, from the Duchess of Berkley on down to barons. Only the Duke of Sussex, her brother, was absent, though a seat was set aside in his name.
In the pre-meeting milling-about, it was easy to lose track of people. Viscount Rainwright was taking advantage of this, his recent unpopularity with the absent Crown Prince having seemingly inspired others to make their own distaste unknown. Having such social-enemies was a necessary consequence of most of his professions, not least of which the extreme favour shown by the late King, whose benevolence had allowed the Viscount much higher esteem than was otherwise his by rank.
One enemy, however, kept appearing in the periphery of his vision, and it was one he was keen to chase down. The Viscount was firmly convinced, as he stiffly slunk from conversation to conversation, that Donnovan Kline was present. The dual-citizen Professor was Dean in name only, so far as the Viscount was concerned, and certainly not a noble. He shouldn’t have been here, and yet the Viscount couldn’t shake his perception of the man’s presence.
It was in a gap between conversations, as Rainwright vanished briefly behind a pillar to swallow back another palmful of analgesics, that the soft clearing of a throat behind him turned the man around, bringing him face to face with the tall, pallid Grand Librarian.
“Ah, my Lord,” he said with a voice like silk on glass. “I thought that might have been you. I’m pleased to find you in such good health.”
With Kline, Rainwright knew from long experience, there would be thirteen or fourteen interpretations to that statement. “And why shouldn’t I be? I am surprised to find you here at all, Professor. It is not often foreign citizens are invited to attend at court.”
“Oh,” Kline dismissed the implication with a flattered gesture, glancing toward the main doors of the throne room – closed, and guarded by Brass Knights. “I wouldn’t miss an occasion like this for the world.”
Rainwright could have sworn a gesture passed between one of the guards and the Professor, who smiled his plastic smile and set his hand over-friendly on the Viscount’s shoulder. “Ah, but I should hate very much to spoil the surprise. You will have to excuse me, old friend. I am needed elsewhere.”
Rainwright scarcely had a protest, as the Professor moved off, milling among the crowd as though the whole moment was choreography on stage. As the Professor drew nearer to the Dais of the throne, Rainwright heard the two guards snap to attention and draw open the door.
The first man who entered was impressive – a large man cloaked in a tabbard-of-arms that designated him as the Royal Herald, among whose other duties were -
“Announcing his Royal Highness, Valarian, Crown Prince of Galba Dea, the Duke of Sussex, Marquess of Royfall, Borough-Count of Redhall, First Sea Lord, of Galba Roy, the Northern Guardians, and the Eastern Sea Heir-Designate the throne!”
Valarian cut a stern figure as he strode into the room, ignorant or oblivious of the consternation he had caused. Camps of peerage devoted to designating Laurel his replacement joined loyalists in staring in incredulity, shocked. With no news of where he had gone, and rumours of severe injury, it was only natural that tensions would develop in this way. To have that tension suddenly released was like the severing of piano-cords – destructive and discordant. He walked stiffly, and not solely due to the formality inherent to his dress as the First Sea Lord, or the weight of the saber on his hip. Rainwright knew, at any rate, that the prince was surely suffering some lingering effects of his injuries. His recovery, from Holly’s limited report, should not have been possible.
Rainwright was the one who had started the movement to transfer the crown, after all. He drew his mouth into a fine line, caught in the front row of attendant nobles, with nobody to shield him from the sidelong glare the king-in-waiting passed him as he ascended the dais, greeted by the bowing Princess.
The two’s embrace was a touching moment that seemed to ease the tension in the room, before Valarian turned. He knew his mark – like Laurel, he did not take the throne, but stood before it, as she moved to the spot that had been reserved for him. Without a word, the matter of succession had been settled – for the moment.
The crown was not the political power it used to be. Rainwright would now have to bank on that.
Valarian surveyed his peers for a long, squirming moment, before speaking in a tone and volume shaped by his service with the Royal Navy. The title may have been his by birthright, but he had not remained First Sea Lord out of simple egotism, after all. “Brass Knights – seal the throne room!”
The sound of a dozen men snapping to attention, rifle-butts clicking against parquetry floors, and calling out “Yes, your highness!” in unison did a fine job of setting the tone for the balance of the evening.
Valarian smirked. “Thank you. My friends, if you would permit this old sailor a moment to prattle on...”
At a sideways glance, Rainwright caught Kline smirking.
---
As most good minions did, Greta Dean had long cultivated a sideline that went beyond her service to Candice Frostburn. It was her right, as she saw it, so long as she was a captive, to learn as much as she could, and to exercise her magic however she saw fit, using whatever she saw fit, so long as she could get away with it, which was surprisingly easy.
The first requirement, materials, was an easy get. Privacy could be harder. The last time she had sneaked off to work her magic, matters had been simplified by the drunkenness of the court guardians and the celebratory atmosphere at Figaro. Here, in the outskirts of Tererra, on a war footing, the guards were more interested in actually doing their jobs, which was problematic for the only human in miles, trying to surreptitiously move a picnic basket full of stolen herbs, crystals, and other paraphenalia without being followed or escorted to her destination. She couldn’t draw heavily on much by way of magic without attracting her mistress’s attention, either, though a simple charm she’d made some years ago, tucked into the basket, would at least keep her from attracting casual notice.
The downside was, if she was noticed, the intent behind it would be less than casual. Such as two guards manning a post between the inner camp and the wider perimeter of the small podunk town that currently served as the war-capital.
“Evenin’, Miss Dean,” said the first, a pincher-headed pooka, placing a forced stress on the title. His partner, an ornery-looking Redcap with a look as violent as his race’s reputation, rolled his eyes.
For Greta, there was nothing to do besides turn up the charm. She was not a difficult prisoner, and at times had even actively embraced her very limited role at court. Consequently, her captors didn’t exactly hate her, either. “Evening, boys. All quiet on the western front?”
The pooka took a step closer, leering at the smaller witch. “Little too quiet, if you ask me. Gets kind of boring, out here...”
“Oh, quit chasing skirts,” the Redcap snapped – about the only mode of speech they were capable of if truth be told, “ ‘specially the ones as ain’t got whatcha want in ‘em.”
Greta passed a lofty frown in the direction of the wall behind the Redcap, knowing full well that the other Guard wouldn’t help her if she’d angered him, regardless of inclination. There was no calming an angry Redcap, Period. Instead, she looked up to the hound-pookah sidelong, offering a slight smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t know much about entertainment.”
He cocked his head in a typically canine fashion. Hound had been the right word. “Well now, you do strike me as a quick study.”
Greta locked eyes with him, knowing full well she was playing the dangerous game of feeding his compulsion, as she rooted around in the basket for a moment, producing a small bundle of tarts. “Back home, when entertaining guests, it was typical to offer them something to eat.”
Suddenly, she had the Redcap’s undivided attention. “Food? You brought food?”
“Just a little something,” Greta said, holding the parcel out toward not the Redcap, but the pooka. Not that that changed whose hand they wound up in, as the little barbarian launched from his stool to grab it out from both of their hands.
“Hold on now,” the Pookah said, moving around from the skirt he was chasing to focus more directly on this fresh, if not minor, betrayal. “She was givin’ those to me, mate.”
“Sure don’ look that way to me,” the Redcap countered.
They were still arguing amongst themselves by the time she slipped into the shadows on the far side of the wall, making her way up an unfamiliar, wooded path that hopefully would lead somewhere quiet.
---
There were a few jobs where you generally didn’t want to be busy, even as a professional, and coroner had to be one of them. As the senior assistant to Galba Roy’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Francesca West was used to being at least a little busy.
She wasn’t happy to be so busy that she had to be in the office at six am in order to deal with the backlog of bodies. While she waited for the kettle to boil in her office (just off the examination room), she printed the appropriate file and consulted it. Thirteen new bodies in, her or the chief to examine, eleven members of Special Branch, and two…
The next phrase was so unbelievable she couldn’t help but mutter it to herself. “Suspected Zaxtonian Agents of Espionage?”
Deciding, perhaps belatedly, that the tea could wait, Doctor West lifted herself from her chair and made her way back into the examination room, task list in hand, to check the respective cells. #487 showed itself as a positively-identified “2Lt. White, Brendan”, presumably one of the escaped Zaxtonian officers. The next cell, #488, “John Doe”, made her curious.
She used her key to unlock the drawer and pull the respective body out, unzipping the body bag it was in which it was enshrouded. Beneath the mylar was the familiar and unwelcome face of Eli Sharona. Doctor Sharona, as she had come to think of him, had not been the wisest choice in her life. She took quite a lot of pride in having learned from his mistakes early in their mutual inquiry into the mysteries of life and death, and having distanced herself accordingly as the years went on.
He looked, behind the pallid, waxen mask of death that time was wearing into his features, almost amused. So amused, he could not suppress a slight chuckle, causing the decaffinated medical examiner to shriek, throwing herself bodily away from him as the second and third roll of the chuckle jerked his shoulders. He was still laughing as he sat up, swinging his legs over one side of the table, steadying himself with his remaining hand, before wagging a finger at her.
“You should see your face.”
He had to move quickly, as Francesca hurled her clipboard with quite a bit of force at his head, in the process of getting back up from the floor, where she had fallen. “God damn it, Eli!”
The tension lingered for a moment, before the two necromancers had no choice but to share another brief round of laughter. This was exactly the kind of stunt to pull, with access to such magic. Frankie had to give her old tutor that much. “You look fucking terrible.”
“Thank you,” Eli said, as cheerfully as the dour lich could manage, as he lowered himself to the floor, and paced to a shelf where, earlier, he had spotted a case of tyvek overalls that would have to do for clothing. “Wish I could say the same to you. Getting out of Kraterburg was good for you.”
West shrugged, dismissively, as she collected her clipboard. “Not having Agency watching over your shoulder has its advantages, to be sure. You might’ve called.”
“I might have, sure, if this was a social visit.”
He turned to her. The corpse-like pallor, which by now should have been wearing off as activity restored life to temporarily-dead cells under most versions of impersonated death that West was familiar with, remained. “I need a favour.”
“There’s easier ways to get a change of clothes.”
Eli rolled his eyes in his more usual, permanent state of exasperation. “Okay, I need two favours.”
“Alright,” West replied, at length. “Shoot.”
“I need you to ship a body internationally on compassionate grounds.”
Frankie frowned. “Whose body?”
“You’re a bright woman, Doctor West, and that is an exceptionally stupid question.”
---
What surprised Vidcund the most about the in-between was the unique way in which it unfolded. In the sensory deprivation tanks he had used to cultivate the ability to be where he now was, however subconsciously, there had always been a sense of confinement, of a limited scope. The in-between, however, was impossibly, universally deep. There was no horizon in any sense, nor any features of a landscape that he could begin to identify, merely a vast, expansive, cosmic gulf, in which even his sense of self seemed boundless.
He was not familiar with the teachings of the far east, but if there was an Enlightenment, if it was truly possible to become one with a universe, this must have been a close approximation of that sensation. That being said, the sense of a limit to the extent to which this world was him, and he was this world, was there, however vague and fuzzy it seemed to him at the time. He knew this had to be the case regardless of his inability to find his skin, as it were, because he was still aware of the Others.
The Tillinghast Plankton had continued to school around him, staying at the periphery of his being, circling and swarming with the same inattentive habituality as flotsam around an obstruction in some great, astral current. It kept a respectable distance, pointedly avoiding anything that even resembled his attention.
For a long time, they were entirely safe from even that unlikely prospect, as Vidcund’s disembodied consciousness struggled to reconstruct some semblance of will power, and anything that remotely resembled the will to live, to again experience any kind of physical sensation after having been so thoroughly overwhelmed with the sensations of death and dying. He had kept going out of the determination that he had dodged death in this way before – twice that he could remember.
The result was like coal in the depths of the earth, or case-hardening steel. That small spark of resolve had been tempered, built upon, and condensed until it became a minor star – the radiant being that was Vidcund, discorporate, intentional, and self-convicted.
The reassertion of ego caused a cascading collapse as the world of the In-Between took a more recognizable form, providing a ground for new feet to tread and sights for new eyes to see. One of the strange, undulating creatures of this place strayed a little closer than he would have liked.
It shrunk away the instant he directed his attention at it. “Shoo.”
---
When the pain came, Greta was almost disappointed.
She hung in mid air behind her makeshift altar in the clearing she had found, skyclad, suspended by the sheer force of the Court Seer’s own magic. The posture made the pain feel that much more real and visceral, as though she actually were transfixed on a spike, like a pretty butterfly on some collector’s card.
Which wasn’t to say the pain was an illusion. It was as real as the actual pin that was binding her, stabbed through the core of a spanish-moss poppet that had been stuffed with her hair and hung, she knew, from the frame of Candice’s cot, in her tent back in the battle-court. The pain that could be inflicted harmlessly on the young witch by use of such sympathetic magic had long been this relationship’s locus of control.
Greta, however, had a personal locus of control, and pain could only be so much punishment. When she could breathe again, she lifted her hand from its trembling position at her side, closing it around the resin charm on her neck – the one she had wrought at Figaro – and snapping the delicate cord it hung upon as she flung it into the fire that burned at the altar.
As soon as the fragment caught, the magic that kept her pinned was dissolute, the destruction of the charm having temporarily stripped Greta of any meaningful identity, acting as a sort of magical counterfeit of death. She fell to the ground, landing hard and painfully on her side, but this more minor pain replaced immediately the phantom pain in her chest, and a bruised hip was not about to stop her from completing her work.
Like any good magician, she had completed as much preparation as possible before she had begun to cast, and this unexpected turn would hopefully leave her a moment or two’s freedom before Candice could find some new avenue of contravention. The witch picked up a bundle of flowers and herbs, casting it into the flames, producing such an overabundance of smoke a nearby observer could have been convinced an explosion had occurred. The effect upon Greta would certainly be as life-altering. If destroying the charm was a death, then she had given herself birth, rewriting blood and body to express her full duality of being. Her stars had been shifted, all fingerprints in the astral sense destroyed and irrevocably replaced.
She was now as good as invisible to the fae that would have pursued her. In one stroke, she had changed everything.
As the smoke cleared, she glanced in the direction of the grand spires of Figaro, with their carcosan architecture and circling swarms of byakhee. It made her happy in a deep and visceral way to see that skyline shimmer and dissolve like a bad dream.
For the first time in what felt like years, she was well and truly awake. She gathered up her things, and made off deeper into the woods, taking only enough time to wrap a towel around her midriff. Dressing again could wait. She needed to keep herself safe until daybreak, when the dreams were reduced, and she could rest in the safe understanding she was, for a few hours at least, entirely out of the reach of the Dreamlands.
---
“It is no secret to any Dean that the crown has occasionally changed hands. It has not always been the sacred duty of Our House to serve our people as their stewards, and a long line of royal houses has come before, will come after, and, no doubt, are already fomenting their designs for transition.”
Valerian’s subject matter, more than his frank tone, was unsettling to the assembly of nobles that had packed his throne room. What had begun as an almost casual excuse for his absence and matter-of-fact account of his injury and poisoning had rapidly devolved into a conversation, probably long-winded, on betrayal. Who he was accusing and what they were accused of was as yet unclear, but the rising tone of his speech and increasing royal presence he exuded from his place before the throne supported the drama of the moment.
“Down through the ages, House Sussex has long kept you, our dear friends, close. As in any network of cousins and old friends, there have been tense moments, small scandals, inheritance conflicts, and all the usual aggravation family brings. We understand. Our Father, the late king, God rest his soul, worked tirelessly to quietly resolve these conflicts so that we all can provide a unified front to the common public. He intervened only when it was necessary, and kept a respectable distance from the matters he had no place in.”
The Crown Prince was pacing now, showing a bit of his youthful distemper. It was clear to those who knew him that he was upset, letting the more martial manner of his military career push through to the front, cracking the sedate and royal varnish the twins’ late parents had imparted on them. “It is the nature of political power to take sides. We are in no way displeased to learn that in our absence, a few of you broke ranks with tradition and presented a motion to parliament to transfer the crown to our sister. In your position, we would have done much the same. The safest, most powerful crown is a stable crown, and little point there would have been in crowning me on my deathbed. With the information you had, you made the only allowable choice.”
A visible wave of relaxation swept through the room. Even Princess Laurel, standing at the side of the throne with her hands politely folded behind her back and an impassive expression, rested a little easier in her posture. Valerian had just cleared the whole room of a lifetime of quiet wondering how badly their actions over the last weeks had damaged their relationship with the crown.
For the most part, Valerian was happy to have done so, though his countenance remained stern and hawkish. “Is our loyal subject, the Viscount Rainwright, present?”
The Viscount took a stiff stride forward, having somehow managed to find himself well out of the standard order of precedence – a mark to his discredit in the eyes of the would-be king. “I am here, your royal Highness, and, for what it’s worth-”
“It is worth relatively little,” Valerian said, cutting the man off with a rude candor none present could remember having ever seen used by a monarch, his own hall or not. “And like Galileo Galilei before the Roman Inquisition, is is your obedient silence that would serve you best.”
A small flock of gasps fluttered about the room like swallows in search of nests, as the tension rose between the Prince and his court magician. “We have already said our disposition was the result of an attack by an assassin, a would-be thief who stole from us our royal property in the north tower. We are certain it would surprise those present little to learn the identity of the assassin, one Holly Bell, who is a servant of your own household.”
The Viscount shook his head most emphatically. “I regret to inform you, my liege, that your information is inaccurate. Miss Bell is not a member of my household staff.”
Valerian gestured, for the room, with an open palm toward Rainwright, as though presenting them a prize. “See how quickly he distances himself from the accused, without denying knowledge of the affair.”
A murmur rose, and Valerian lowering his arm was enough to hush it. “We are, for all our temper, more fair-minded than perhaps we once were. We doubt very much that Miss Bell was sent to kill us on your orders, for while we are quite unconvinced of your loyalty, we are very certain you would never do something as mind-shatteringly naive as to attempt Regicide. We are, however, firmly convinced the theft was of your orchestration. Effective immediately, you shall consider yourself subject to investigation. Therefore, it is the pleasure of the Crown which you serve that you shall withdraw your household staff to your manor-home in the countryside, as is your due. Your townhouse in Galba Roy and all of its contents and attendant properties are forfiet. You will await the judgement of our appointed court in its proper time, and in your proper place, less, in your refusal, you risk further punishments.”
Rainwright was stunned speachless, finding himself an ant beneath many looking glasses. Without the Crown to shelter himself behind, a long career of intrigues left him vulnerable to foul play both political and material. There were those in this room who wanted him dead.
Valerian fixed him with a steely gaze. “You are dismissed from my presence. Perhaps now you wish you were not so hasty in dismissing your deft-handed servant.”
“Who are you,” the Viscount said, “to so callously and high-handedly disregard due process and banish your Highness’s most loyal servant on the mere suspicion of some treachery?”
The Prince did not explode into a fury, as perhaps some would have expected. Instead, and with a deliberate slowness that showed knowledge of the shock that would seize the room as he did so, he lowered himself onto the Brass Throne. “I am Valerian, First of His Name, of Galba Roy, Northholdt, and the Eastern Seas, King, Princely Son of House Sussex and House Dougal, heir in blood and deed of the First Kings.”
When Rainwright looked, past the Brass Knights who were now moving toward him to walk him from the room, he saw Kline join the rest of those assembled in deafening applause. He could not recall having ever seen the elder sorcerer look so pleased with himself.
---
“Could I get one of those?”
James checked over his shoulder casually, in a slightly posed way, which Niles had long since realized was down to the man’s passive telepathy obviating such glances. They were a coping mechanism, maybe, a way to seem less creepy, a head-fake toward normality. Camouflage. The professor was bundled up in a cable-knit sweater that was a size too large – armour for the morning fog – with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a probably-stolen cigarette in the other.
His voice was cracking. “Leave it to you to find the stolen cigarettes.”
“Big mystery,” Niles countered. “Wake up, look out the window, see you on the balcony.”
A sedate, unfelt laugh huffed between the two of them. Niles picked up the carton and fished the cigarette out of the package. A lighter jumped from James’ pocket and hovered a foot in front of Niles’ face for a few minutes before the detective realized where it was and snatched it up. “You stole my light, too? Bastard.”
Silence passed. The sun was rising over this small foothill village, where the chief conspirators of yesterday afternoon’s attack in Galba Roy were staying over, until they could regroup and gather their thoughts. Though staid, the view was none-the-less somewhat picteresque, if you liked soft focus and autumn in midsummer. Niles glanced at James again. “You’ve been crying.”
“Did I wake you?” The psychic’s tone signalled it wasn’t a serious question. You didn’t have to be a psychic to read minds, and Niles was better at reading James than most.
“No.”
The sliding glass door behind them opened again, admitting a third figure to join them. Niles serruptitiously tucked his free hand into the pocket of his house coat, closing around the grip of his detective special.
“Can I get one of those?”
Frowning, Niles turned, glaring at Archangel. To be honest, though he had an intellectual understanding of the rest of the Horsemen’s fear that they would never see their benefactor again after his mysterious disappearance (and Edward’s avowed destruction) in Galba Roy, Niles had a faith, bordering on religious, in Eli Sharona’s ability to cheat death. “Aren’t you a minor?”
James cracked a sad smile, turning to face Eli. “These things are terrible for your skin, boss, and I don’t think you could stand much worse. Nice threads.”
Eli gestured dismissively. “I’m due at a funeral. I was hoping to speak to the two of you, but tragically you seem to have done your jobs correctly and dispersed, so I can’t find Banker or Prodigal, so you two will have to do. I am leaving, for a time. Something more important than Edward’s contract requires my attention.”
Niles felt a familiar frustration and indignation welling up, though James seemed to except this as the natural order of things, and shrugged. “Alright. You want us to maintain the contract?”
“I want you two to use your better judgment, and if the rest of the council has a problem with that, accept it. There are only the six of you. If you can’t get done what Edward needs done, the contract is no longer in good faith.” Eli reached his hand to the door, no doubt intending to leave as quickly as he arrived. “I will be in the northern Terrwald.”
Niles frowned deeply. “… How the hell do you intend to get there with the no-fly zone in effect?”
“In a pine box, detective,” Eli said, as though explaining the principle of taxicabs to a foreigner. “Six deep, as it were.”
He left, then, and the two men stared through the glass doors as he departed their room entirely, before Niles crushed what was left of the cigarette in the ash tray James helpfully levitated nearby. “… I need a shower.”
“Not half as badly as he does,” James quipped, following him inside, “… or I do, for that matter.”
---
For his own part, Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to jockey for any kind of position, let alone good viewing privileges on a computer monitor. This airfield, and to call it an airfield was charitable, was a far cry from any of the military installations he’d toured as the nation’s chief executive. To judge by Vincent’s expression, the same was true for the nation’s Lord High Marshall.
Only the Agent-Liaison seemed unmoved by the shabby nature of the three-room shack and the sudden appearance of the most unprofessional-looking group of Agency Division personnel any of the Executive council had ever seen – one man in a ballistic vest and otherwise topless, another with a mop of colourful hair, a third who refused to show his face in passing, removing his hat with such critical timing that his goal must have been to obscure the view entirely. Only the group’s commander, Agent Valkoinen, looked as one would expect: clean cut, entirely professional, and highly forgettable.
“What do we have?”, she asked, unceremoniously, when she accepted a fresh can of meal replacer from Dowd, who seemed familiar enough with the other Woman in White to have guessed she would want it.
“Surrounded on the three outward fronts, and frankly, it’s only a matter of time before they cut off passage back to the city.” To the shock of the others, Stamatia treated this entirely matter-of-factly.
Marshall Coultier cleared his throat. “Then I suggest we leave as quickly as possible.”
Valkoinen gestured dismissively to that, viewing the map. “How many mustas on site?”
“We’d need to do four airlifts. Ah, maybe two, if we left behind the Executive Council’s unessential staff.” Dowd shrugged slightly. “Down to Razeland, operational time of completion would be on the order of… four hours. We lost most of our Mustas during ops in Kraterburg. Before your boy fucked that all up on us.”
Valkoinen actually chuckled at that, folding her arms as she looked around. “A city seems a fair trade for a god. Four flights won’t do it. Beg borrow and steal whatever aircraft you need from the Air Self Defense Forces. Better doing useful work than getting routed over Tererra.”
“I’m not sure just who the hell you think you are, Agent, but that’s the Agent-Liaison.”
Valkoinen turned on her heel, stepping toward the Great Justice, her accuser. “I am the one they call when everyone else fucks up, your honour. If you ever need to meet me – again, anyway – you are perhaps the unluckiest executive in our nation’s history.”
The wheels seemed to finally click into place on Vincent’s face. “You’re the woman who sent Edward to Galba Roy.”
“I am. His work is proceeding fantastically, by the way, I...”
She trailed off, as the door for the room into which her team had hidden opened and closed, admitting a man in grey pin-stripes, donning sunglasses in spite of the relative mildness of the light, as so many of Agency Division’s hacks liked to do. To the surprise of most present, his sudden reappearance put a slow smile on Valkoinen’s face.
“Agent Därk. So glad you could join us.”
Vincent had returned his gaze to the monitor. “We’re surrounded, now. Guess we have to go with the airlift plan.”
Agent Därk adjusted his gaze slightly, leaning around the man to look at the display. “… Don’t tell me we’re all stuck thinking in three dimensions, now...”
Valkoinen frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The helipad isn’t the only transportation infrastructure on this base,” Vidcund replied, enigmatically. “And frankly, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t think of it yourself.”