The Gambit with Perfection (The Phantom of the Earth Book 2) (7 page)

Their hypothesis held, at least for Brody. He appeared and felt as youthful as he had in the year 260 AR, when he’d reached adulthood in House Variscan, for all the good it did him being sent across the galaxy from Damy.

To hear Heywood, he’d be gone for less than a trimester as the Earth rotates, and this was what he’d told Damy when she’d asked. “I’ll come back to you in less than fifty days.”

The truth was, he didn’t know how long he might be gone—it all depended upon his skills with the ZPF, skills that weren’t as sharp in recent years, admittedly—and should his time away from Earth stretch longer, a trimester, or gods forbid, years, he wanted to be sure he left with his mind and body in their treated, steady state. He hadn’t imbibed the spicy athanasia vapors since the second trimester last year.

Meeting with Verena and Nero here served another purpose, of course. Brody, unlike any other strike team captain, preferred to train in Fountain Square rather than the RDD. His mind was clearer here, and his team offered no complaints. Nero in particular much preferred the view of waterfalls, plinths, fountains, oils, and marble steps that led down into the Fountain Temple, where women bathed nude in the water and others bathed in love, all reversing years and years of age within hours.

The Barão Strike Team stood at the square’s priority entrance. They would not obtain cryptors and wait half a day to enter. When the Janzers opened the cedar doors to allow their passage, the smells bombarded them: scents of cardamom, cinnamon, lemongrass, lavender, coriander, rose petals, lemon peel, jasmine, lemon balm, wintergreen, lemon verbena, cumin, ginger, thyme, basil, and so many more. The sounds of trams and harpists and violinists and pianists and lovemaking blended together over the massive square, and the bright bioluminescent falls of the Fountain of Youth hung in midair as if placed by the gods.

Brody welcomed this sensory overload prior to a mission launch. He felt the vapors upon his face, and soft white rose petals stuck to his feet. Many of their fellow Beimenians bathed in what the aristocrats called Athanasia’s Kiss, the steaming pools that contained the spices and gene therapies that kept them as young as the day they completed development.

The Barão Strike Team now drifted over a white onyx bridge that curved into the Fountain Temple, where Brody rented a private cabana. Only the highest members of Masimovian’s Administration, ministers of the commonwealth, supreme scientists, and those few Beimenians who achieved significant conversion were allowed in the temple. Brody’s title of supreme scientist enabled his team’s access, though none had earned the Mark of Masimovian.

Minister Noria Furongielle of Marshlands Territory stood half-nude near the golden pillars at the temple’s arced entrance. Brody hesitated. Damy’s sister-in-development wore a prim golden chiffon skirt that clung to her wet skin, and a ruby settled between her bare breasts, breasts as perfect as Brody remembered them. She looked his way and rubbed her back against the pillar.

Why does she do this
, he thought,
why does she still persist after all this time?
She seemed to think he’d give in to her beauty the way any other man in Beimeni would.

His heart did quicken in her presence, and it took thoughts of Reassortment to keep his manhood limp.

“Captain Barão, are you following me?” She sashayed to him. When he didn’t respond, she said sensually, “Or do you think I’m insensitive?”

“Minister, I think you have a talent for deception,” Verena said, “and I think you need to leave.”

Minister Furongielle narrowed her eyes. “I’d hold that tongue if I were you, wench.” A keeper bot emerged from behind the pillar and placed a thin silk shawl over the minister. Her hard nipples showed through, and she sucked her bottom lip. “I railed against the Warning at our last session. I wanted you to know from my lips to yours—”

Brody avoided her kiss. “Noria, this isn’t going to happen. It’s never going to happen—”

She put her finger on his lips. “Nothing is forever.” She moved her forefinger in the infinite loops. “Isn’t that what the chancellor says?” Brody crossed his arms. Noria turned. “I’ll go.” She looked over her shoulder. “You know where to find me when you leave that pig.”

Minister Furongielle strutted barefoot over an onyx bridge. Before she reached the end, suitors surrounded her—an RDD scientist, an Opean synism dealer, a Navitan trader, a Loverealan fire dancer, and a Luxorian snake charmer, among others, ready to bed her and wed her and lead with her in Underground East’s Marshlands Territory, where her approval rating had hung in the low seventies for decades.

“Doll’s still holding out for you,” Nero said.

“Please,” Verena rolled her eyes, “she’s holding out for your benaris, and influence in Palaestra.”

“Can we just go now?” Brody said.

Nero smiled. “Yes, Captain.”

They entered a cabana within the temple. The essential oils burned from crystal pedestals arced around a plinth engulfed with gold bioluminescence. They each stood on separate sides of the plinth. Brody raised his head, accessed the ZPF and the quantum universe, and brought Nero and Verena into his mind. Where minutes passed in the tangible world, hours passed in his mind, giving his team all the time they required to understand this Mission to Vigna, and thanks to Brody’s telepathic shielding abilities, a haven away from Marstone.

They found themselves standing upon a coastal cliff on Earth’s surface, breathing crisp ocean air. The breeze whipped Verena’s long hair around her face. She smiled, catching a strand in her mouth.

“We’ll give the chancellor his significant conversion, but we won’t recommend colonization of Vigna.” Brody stared at Nero, who didn’t disagree. His striker had long preferred extraplanetary colonization to a return to the Earth’s surface. Brody smiled, then added, “We won’t give up on our Reassortment research, and we won’t give up on each other.” He paused and put his hands on their shoulders. “We’ll find a cure, the way we planned, together, and lead the people back to the Earth’s surface.”

Nero nodded and put his hand on Verena’s shoulder. She tucked an arm around his waist. “Indeed, Captain, Vigna isn’t Earth,” she said. “Who would want to live there when we could have this?” She gestured at the jagged cliffs and the water around them.

“Agreed,” Nero said. Verena moved her head to the side and raised her brow, then she kissed him gently on his shaved cheek. “Love,” he said to her, “let’s knock out this mission so we can refocus on our real priority.”

“The Reassortment project,” Brody said.

They worked out more of the details, including calculations of wavefunctions throughout the galaxy, and planned for their interview with the
Beimeni Press
, a requirement for all strike teams prior to commonwealth missions. Hours later, they had a soak in the temple pools on their way out.

The next day, the team arrived at Palaestra Hall. A keeper bot labeled DANIEL escorted Brody and his team through the claustrophobic alleyway outside. Brody understood Beimenian customs prior to, during, and after commonwealth missions well, for he had traveled on more of them than any strike team captain in history. The difference this day was that he operated, for the first time, under the weight of a Warning.

Daniel turned to the side of the building and activated a DNA scanner. Brody placed his palm in the grooved hologram and inserted his access card into the slot that appeared in the wall. A hidden door crackled and disappeared, revealing an opulent lounge full of well-dressed Palaestrans. The team stepped inside.

“Minister Charles, you grace us with your presence,” Brody said.

He, Verena, and Nero bowed to the Palaestran minister, a longtime friend of Brody’s and the strike team’s closest ally on the board. Tethys Charles was a gemstone of a man, developed by House Lourenitis two centuries ago. His eyes absorbed all in the concealed lounge, where white illuminated cubes doubled as tables and seating consisted of magenta settees layered with feather pillows. Palaestra Hall and its surrounding district lacked lordship presently, and so with Daniel filling in as emcee, the bot scurried through the sight-and sound-proof curtains at the front of the lounge. As the curtains parted to let Daniel through, Brody heard the muttering of the crowd and glimpsed Danforth Diamond, the famed
Beimeni Press
reporter, on the other side. Then the curtains fell and all sounds and sights disappeared. Nero and Verena accepted glasses filled with Loverealan wine.

“On the contrary,” Tethys said, “the pleasure is mine. Palaestra is honored to host the People’s Captain. The commonwealth needs noble men,” Tethys nodded to Verena, “and women at this challenging time in our history.”

“Your words are appreciated,” Brody said. He refrained from commenting on the challenge Tethys referred to, the attacks within Palaestra perpetrated by the clandestine organization of terrorists no government officer formally recognized. These attacks had grown deadlier and larger by the year, until now not even Lady Isabelle, for all her power with the ZPF, could subdue them.

“So you’ll understand our confusion with regard to the Warning,” Brody continued. “Chancellor Masimovian and Prime Minister Decca haven’t permitted arbitration, and the ministry and board won’t enter sessions again until after the launch. So my questions are, was the ministry informed of this decision, and if it was, what has made the people’s representatives lose faith in their captain?”

Tethys gave a slight nod and led Brody away from his team. He sauntered along with his hands clasped casually behind his golden tunic. “The chancellor acts more and more as if he doesn’t require the ministry’s assistance.”

Brody sensed his friend searching for the proper response. He slyly activated his recaller and contemplated use of the ZPF in a way he hadn’t in so long—a deceptive, penetrative way. He needed to know what Tethys wasn’t saying with regards to the chancellor and the Warning. His team’s safety depended on it.

Tethys stared at no one in particular. “I fear for the survival of Beimeni should this mission fail.” His eyes met Brody’s. “Do whatever it takes out there. If the chancellor is so desperate for significant conversion, then give it to him. Your people need their captain here, alive, in the Beimeni zone.”

Daniel emerged from behind the curtain. Crowd noise echoed through the lounge. “Aha, they’re ready.”

“So are we,” Tethys said, and he lifted his arm as if to guide the way to the stage. “After you, my friends.”

Danforth Diamond was wooing aristocrats in the front rows when the Barão Strike Team walked onstage to booming applause. Danforth turned and smiled. His thick reddish-blue hair parted to the left, the right side crew-cut. His face had an artificial appearance, almost like a robot masquerading as transhuman.

Danforth’s parents were, at one time, overlords of the Entertainment District and caretakers of Hammerton Hall, a major Beimeni City venue that featured the top performing artists in the commonwealth. Danforth had grown up in showbiz, but he maintained he had as normal a life as anyone else: born underground, neurochip implanted, growth to adulthood accelerated, trained for the Harpoons where he performed in the top 10 percent, and finally purchased at the Harpoon Auction—in his case, by the
Beimeni Press
.

Brody knew Minister Charles enjoyed Danforth’s presence because he brought fame, respect, and an inflow of benaris from Phanes. Masimovian loved Danforth’s loyalty, and Danforth cherished the attention—all to Brody’s dismay, as he would have preferred to be at home with Damy, or in the Reassortment Research Center with his team, designing the next synbio Reassortment treatment.

Brody sat between Verena and Nero across from Danforth upon a crystalline oval chair.

“Captain, it’s wonderful to have you with us again.” Danforth’s voice was as deep as Marstone’s, and he contorted his face in a grin he alone was capable of, while Brody feigned affection. “How confident are you that your performance on Vigna shall negate the Warning?”

Performance?
Brody thought. His existence in Beimeni was threatened by a Warning from the Office of the Chancellor, and Danforth referred to the mission as if it were an event in Hammerton Hall. He looked out across the stage. The light reflected from thousands of garnet-studded chandeliers in such a way that Brody couldn’t see the audience. He hoped the crowds throughout Beimeni, who watched the interview by requirement, couldn’t see the discomfort in his face. He wanted to tell Danforth the probability of his “performance” negating the Warning was low, the probability of significant conversion even less, and that he didn’t understand how a man of his position could be “warned,” as it were.

Instead, he said, “I’m more confident in this mission than I’ve been in any other.” The lights and heat enveloped Brody. Knowing the objective of these sorts of events, he’d devised a strategy to keep his torment short.

Above a Granville sphere between Danforth and the team, the
Cassiopeia
took shape, its tip near the top of the hall, its ebony panels accentuated by the lights. Rockets that would be filled with early-and late-stage propellants designed to free the ship from Earth’s gravity stood attached to the outside.