The Guardsman: Book 3: Wrath and Retribution

By R.G. Taark

A lone man who carries the name of the Empire's ultimate shame and anonymity, 'John Smith'. Stripped of everything from his past, cast out and stumbling through the world he sees everything he grew up believing with new eyes. The harsh realities of his world nip at his flanks and heels every day of his new life, while memories and painful traumas of his old life plague his days and even nights.

The true price and cause of his silent suffering and banishment are a secret he refuses to speak. The intrigue that precipitated his fall still lurks in the shadows of the Empire waiting for its prey. The plot he deflected, thinking he defeated, is only delayed and is slowly closing again.

Suddenly he is thrust back into the shadowed and deadly game he thought he was insulated from and had left behind forever.

(The complete third book)
(The Guardsman: Book 3: Wrath and Retribution: +175,000 words)

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.G. Taark
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9780984999668

R.G. Taark

I write for fun between family and other business obligations. I enjoy sharing my stories and am glad for the opportunity to share them.

Book preview

THE GUARDSMAN

Book 1: Honor of the Fallen

Book 2: Blood Debts

Book 3: Wrath and Retribution

by: R. G. Taark

Smashwords Edition

For my two wonderful little people,

this is daddy's gift to you both . . .

Thank you for being steadfast.

Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito.

COPYRIGHT, 2013 by R.G. Taark

ISBN: 978-0-9849996-6-8

Author's Forward:

This story is a meant to be a 'light' mystery. I periodically drop clues, so if something in the dialogue doesn't make sense there may be a reason for that.

My goal for this story is that you as the reader are swept along with the character's first person perspective.

Every chapter can stand alone as a short story and is intentionally designed to take one (often small) step along the story arc. Every chapter sized step on this journey has a purpose. I do not repeat or rehash details unless there is a reason for it. Chapters are sequentially numbered into the second and third books for a reason; it is all one story . . .

This was written for fun. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it . . .

For a full list of my other projects and work that might interest you I have consolidated my information at www.rgtaark.com. I have a section for my finished projects along with links to them, and a number of projects I am working on along with brief descriptions of those projects.

When you have the time and inclination I gladly welcome you to my own little domain on the web.

Author's Notes:

I really enjoy reading the email messages, blog entries, and reviews that fans of this series have posted. Many are hugely complementary and great praise, and I thank you all for them. Sometimes I get the 'you did that wrong' messages and they make me sit up and read through things again to ensure what I'm writing makes sense. Sometimes what I produce is a little 'weird' based on the story-world. Here are three common comments that have made me smile:

A word on 'Persephone': 'She would never act like that'. That comment always draws a chuckle from me. Persephone is a carbon copy of someone I am very fond of and know very well, from her sharp intelligence and expansive creativity, to her easy beauty and lust for life, to the defiant willfulness, and all the way through the semi-spoiled rich-girl daddy's-girl attitude. 'Persephone' is a real woman who just fits the story perfectly.

A word on 'Aliens': There are none in this series. If your review or email says anything like 'the aliens were . . .' chances are you read one book and replied to the wrong author. The messages do elicit a smile from me though.

A word on 'Economics': Economics is not a homogeneous science. There are disagreements and different schools of thought that drive economic and political decisions. There are as many political divisions as there are economic schools of through, because each one supports a different solution of governance. Economics is now irrevocably tied to (often heated) politics, it becomes nearly impossible to have a discussion about it without 'pissing someone off'.

The three economic schools that are represented in this series of books are often dynamically opposed and are pivotal in 'modern' politics. They are: 'Austrian', 'Keynesian', and 'Marxist'. The Corporatized Empires in the Guardsman books are based on the 'Austrian' school of economics. The Austrian economic school views economic interactions are based upon a standardized unit of currency based upon a gold standard and efficiencies through technological improvement have been realized allowing prices to rise and fall naturally with efficiency or increased population demands. 'Guardsman Earth' is based loosely on the Marxist and Keynesian economic schools. The difference is that for 'Guardsman Earth' they have little 'shortage' or 'need' as the center of the Human universe receiving massed payments in the form of gold coin through Earth's largest employer, the Terraforming Commission. The Marxist Economic School supports Marxism / Communism / Socialism, where all wealth is owned and directed by the central polity and distributed to the workers at the largess of the 'party bosses', so the bosses decide how much everyone is paid and the types of housing and social services they receive. The Keynesian Economic School is the economic system under which the United States labors; it is also highly familiar to most 'English speaking' readers. Keynesian Economics is a 'central banker' system, where the governing polity controls the money supply through banks and uses it to encourage their version of prosperity which includes the creation of inflation through 'printed money' to protect the assets that the banks use to back their loans.

Rightly or wrongly, according to varied opinion, the Corporatized Empires in this story are free of Marxist economic governing bodies calling wealth to central bosses for their distribution; there are some instances but not many. They are also free of Keynesian central bankers manipulating the 'paper-money' for their own systemic economic gain. This does NOT create an egalitarian utopia where all are happy and everyone's dreams magically come true. That setting would make for a short and dreadfully boring story. Instead as per my goal in telling this story with this economic system it creates vast inequities, huge opportunities, economic social and political interactions rife with conflict, and a vibrant world with which the characters can interact and fight for survival.

I'm pretty good at economics. I am also grounded enough to understand that people will disagree based on political attachments. I also deliberately chose systems that would create colorful conflict between different parties. The perspective of those parties creates and drives the interactions. How else could I create conflict between 'Earth' and the hyper-efficient and profit motivated stellar empires that grumble and chaff under Earth's bureaucratic terraforming monopoly, and the privileged life of Persephone relative the abject poverty of the overcrowded and ill funded orphan crèches? I am intimately familiar with economic systems, having read all three of the systems I'm using for this story. I created this universe as I did specifically to create the most interesting 'Science Fiction' world for the story, not to piss anyone off.

Preface

This is book 3 of a complete Guardsman story. It is entirely too long and plot too complex to tell all at once so it is broken into three books. The intent of the first book is a first person perspective following two characters to introduce the world, their relationship, and parts of the past that placed them in the situation they find themselves in 'now'. The second book illustrates the past that lead to the current predicaments and the clash of wills as opposing powers meet.

The two main characters are introduced in the first book, Guardsman 1: Honor of the Fallen. They are Persephone and Samson. Persephone is heiress to the massive, respected and successful Chroynos Stellar Hegemony. Samson has fallen from his lofty position as Persephone's personal Guardsman. In an effort to protect her, he bears the brunt of a character assassination campaign that would destroy the heiress, because he loves her more than his own life.

In the first book someone is trying to destroy Persephone's family and destroy or kill her specifically. Two clues are presented in the first book. The first is an overt discrepancy between what two characters are saying. The second is thinly veiled. Samson misses both clues at the time and begins to unravel the enigma in this second book.

To start the first book Samson is disgraced and stripped of title, even stripped of his name and forced to carry the name of the empire's most condemned: 'John Smith'. He works for a private detective hunting criminals on the run and investigating frauds. Mario Tomposo is the licensed detective and small entrepreneur in the agency that employs the banished 'John Smith' to save credits. He is actually breaking the law by not shunning the outcast and by not allowing him to starve to death. To Mario, 'Smith' is a warm body and a capable investigator who is making Mario's agency money, in the form of difficult but completed assignments, untraceable gold coin and illegally cheap labor. While Samson, then 'John Smith', is investigating one of Mario's cases, Samson meets a retired Hegemony soldier turned entrepreneur, and sometimes pirate, hidden at the bottom of the mist shrouded lower and ground levels of the planet's megacity, named Vladimir Lee.

Persephone's mother and father, Celine and Phyllip Chroynos, have suffered the deaths of Persephone's four older siblings and are painfully aware, in their hearts that someone is trying to kill their last baby. Persephone's one time friend, personal confidant, and maid Angela turns on her, unleashing an extremely powerful, nanobot enhanced, horrifically armored and completely invisible sleeper agent. The threat within their protective citadel's supposedly unassailable walls causes her father to send her out into the world to make her a constantly moving young woman with a chance to survive, instead of a stationary target waiting to die, at the hands of an unknown number of invisible sleepers who have already slipped through security.

The second book, Blood Debts details the deaths of Persephone's siblings and other family members. The brutal past is explored and comes into direct conflict with Samson and Persephone as they are actively pursued and assaulted. Several final clues are added in Blood Debts that point to the conspiracy. By the end of Blood Debts, Samson and Persephone know the origins of the plot to destroy her.

Wrath and Retribution picks up the story the following morning in a different location.

THE GUARDSMAN

Book 3: Wrath and Retribution

The second book is called Blood Debts for a reason. The Chroynos family while successful in business, has been decimated by war with neighboring empires and treachery. Free standing numbers are the age of the family member relative Persephone. The number in ( - ) is Persephone's age when those family member's were killed. For clarity, non-blood relatives, and those not still living are excluded from the wireframe diagram of the family.

The Hegemony Military has a Ground Combat, Ground Support, and Naval component corporations that fight the wars and are controlled by the Chroynos family as majority shareholders ensuring the loyalty of the military corporations. They also use elite formations of 'Guardsmen' as quick reaction troops to support other units, but Guardsmen are all officers because of the decade and a half of training and schooling before their commission dates. General Officer ranks also carry leadership positions in the corporations. The Hegemony's 'Home Guard' troops are experienced soldiers who are on 'loan' from the ground forces to provide house security. The Guardsman maintain a small Naval battle group of their own and use Naval ranks when assigned to the Guardsman Naval component.

The four military organization's ranks follow:

68)

Kazimir Chroynos fiercely drove his hands through his hair yet again.

The interminable trip from the Cursed Citadel to his building had frayed his last nerve. Landing on the 'highest authorized pad' for the public cab had been infuriating. 'Walking' to the elevator had set his blood to boil. His barked rebuke to the assholes and dumb bitches, who had tried to join him in the car, was mildly satisfying.

The forty-five floors the infernal elevator car had to travel were bad enough, but the moron engineer who had crafted the car to travel slower with every floor needed to die screaming with his skin stripped off, and intestines pulled out slowly into a bucket while he watched. Maybe hung from the ceiling upside down for hours so he had to piss over his dangling guts and into his face and nose.

Kicking the frame of the elevator door while pushing his disheveled, ear length hair, back from his eyes again, then a second time, Kazimir fumed with inaction. The now greasy black mess held nothing of its perfect styling that his personal stylist had added at the beginning of the day. Now the oils and hair products 'what's-his-name' used every morning were white flakes of broken goo and sticky residue in Kazimir's fingernails. Smudging his filed nails, and marring their perfectly rounded shape.

Like a common peon, he was forced to use his 'building cash card' of all things! He had almost forgotten that he had that thing at all, let alone that he'd needed it for this menial transaction.

It only added to his frustration and rage that his own building was so primitive and inert that they didn't even have proper scanners to identify him and pass him without hassle as it should.

There was a reason he paid people to handle those transactions. Kazimir didn't need to be troubled; he had more important things to do.

Like ruling an Empire . . . And not this! This absurdity! This . . . usurpation of order!

Stepping back and slamming his foot into the elevator door, his right ankle and toes hurt fiercely. But he left a satisfying dent in the finely finished stainless steel door. The injustice after all the years of planning, patience, sacrifice, and work was . . . somewhere light-years beyond frustrating.

The obnoxious ping jarred Kazimir out of his angry revelry. Not understanding what the K C meant instead of a floor number until the door started to slide open, and caught on the elevated sides of the crater his foot had made in the door. 'K C', the brand he had attached to every elevator in the building that reached his floor to let people know they were at the wrong floor and needed to find themselves removed from his presence. It chimed at his floor, the penthouse apartment of the one building on the whole planet with an unobstructed view of the Citadel with the sun setting behind it.

Fittingly, once upon a time he had publicly decided it would be a perfect residence for all the normal reason. It was also the one building in the universe that cast its shadow on that same Citadel every morning when he woke up. Per his request, some clever assistant had figured out how to program a morning alert system so that it would wake him fifteen minutes before the sun peaked over the horizon every morning. Just so he could be up and watch that day's 'motivational event', as he called it in the private confines of his head. The rising sun eclipsing the current dynasty while ushering in his own, had always been an inspiring vision.

East of the Citadel, across the three kilometer long plaza between rows of other buildings, established by great, great, great grandfather 'whoever' when he had decreed in his infinite wisdom and organization skills that there 'would never be a building taller' and that 'the cardinal directions would show from the point of the Citadel for three miles in all four points of the compass'. That ridiculous story had been handed down from generation to generation as 'family lore'. Required slop for every Chroynos brat and whelp that came along before him. Never mind that the truth of it was a little different and that they didn't really design the city. Chroynos only initiated a hostile takeover of the failing previous dynasty, supported by that dynasty's own unpaid military corporations that had slowly fallen under the ownership of that Chroynos generation. They offered amnesty and quiet retirement to the prior dynasty to stave off the military's planned blood bath for the Chroynos predecessors, in exchange for adoption into the family as sole heir to the empire. That move excluded the natural offspring from the line of inheritance who would have been killed in the planned military coup.

Chroynos saved their lives from the wrath of the military corporation that they had so angered, and left them a small fortune along with instructions to never raise their hands to challenge the new dynasty. They'd had plenty to keep wine in their cups had they been smart, but instead had squandered their fortunes, fallen to disgrace and for the most part completely out of memory. Occasionally, one of those sullen losers would appear on a late night talk show rattling about their stolen place. They'd be threatened with a Chroynos lawsuit and would crawl back down whatever stinking hole they'd emerged from before the interview.

There was no blood shared between the CEO of city's founder corporation, whose offspring incompetently managed their empire straight into Chroynos hands, and the current Chroynos Dynasty. It was all a paperwork shuffle and an illusion to keep the plebs inline, while wrapping their feeble minds in the warm blanket of the lie that there was continuity and stability in their lives.

Kazimir scoffed at the insipid legend and its accompanying deceptions.

Now that the doors were bent, he was forced to squeeze out of his own elevator, because the piece of shit door was suck half way open, while its mate mirrored its position, half opened and stuck.

He was forced to turn sideways as grated his expensive suit along the door bumpers. The humiliation of touching something else that so many unwashed millions had undoubtedly touched before sent a wrinkle of disgust along his skin.

Once past the day's final barrier, he stormed silently through the apartments to his personal office's security door. He slammed his calm resolve over his rage and passed his security locks, and watched as it retracted its twin stun rods. He had wanted auto cannons guarding his office doors, but the bitch had vacillated and argued against them. 'Never know when some old friend might stop by and trip it accidentally', she had said in her cloyingly polite voice. It was a detail not worth thinking about at the time, so he had acquiesced and let it drop.

Thankfully there were no sycophants in his foyer at this hour. He had hardly finished his trip into work when he heard about the dreadfully moronically inspired news from the night before. It was on every file folder both digital and hardcopy record on his desk when he arrived that morning.

It had started as a typical, 'just another day of patiently waiting' until he read what his moronic father had done the night before. The vid had been 'charming'. There he was captured on vid, seen before the whole Empire! Sending his personal Guardsman to collect the head of that self-righteous bitch-whore!

How that fool could be caught so tragically unaware, at such a critical time in their planning could only be explained by the strong proof of the amber drink he kept draining and replacing above his plate. That he could allow something as simple as too much drink to cause total failure after so many years was positively infuriating!

Flying through the grand entrance and passing the adjoining automated security check point, to his private office, that shared the west wall with the master bed room, the only bedroom, again, another unrewarding compromise in a life full of pointless compromises, first to his father, then to that piece of sanctimonious shit Phyllip, then with that fruitless idiot who insisted on sharing his bed. If he had not had to consider 'her' decorating ideas in the master plan he would have occupied the whole western wall with his office.

Years of patience ruined because that bumbling old fool couldn't look around himself, couldn't see beyond his own nose, and worst of all sent his personal attack dog to clean up the mess that he had made.

The biometric thumb scanner, key pad and voice recognition lock on his lower left desk drawer pinged happily in its annoying consistency, that his codes had been recognized. As irritating as opening all those locks was, the security manager had made the valid points that anyone could key a security code once it was known, and anyone could hold his thumb to the pad, even when he was unconscious. However, no one could record his voice and not have the picked out by the top line voice scanner's software. The device could also measure voice stress patterns associated with him being forced to open the lock under duress. Combining all three was virtually impenetrable security. Coupled with the series of high-explosive anti-tank mines, quietly pilfered from his time in the empire's Military corporations and secretly hidden in the wall behind the desk that would shred any intruder who failed to open the secure drawer correctly, not to mention instantly atomize the contents of the drawer. Thanks to his multiple layers of overlapping and progressively more lethal security, this drawer was one of the most secure repositories on the planet, and probably the universe.

Scooping his three comm units out, and onto the desk top, he pulled the travel authorization identities, plus the fifteen roles of twenty-five ten thousand credit denomination gold coins. The neatly folded black handbag at the back of the drawer slapped onto the desk under his angrily swung palm. The coins and identities went into the bag first. The three comms, which his tiny and cleverly written security worm had erased from the system over a decade before making them completely invisible to all authorities, found their ways into various pockets.

As the head of the planetary intelligence services his insertion of that protocol had gone unnoticed. Then he changed the security settings to avoid it during scans, a common intelligence procedure for his normal intelligence duties, which had gone undetected also. The clever little program made his three comms invisible to the system, and 'disappeared' any communications any one of them had with outside sources. Those communications would not even show up on the receiving comm's records, the receiving comms would have records of the message but not its origin. His personal comm slipped into his right front pocket. His 'records' comm was filled to capacity with his under the table financial records and never connected to anything. He slipped that one into his left front pocket. The terabytes of data, records, dealings, and web of scams stored in that device would have been enough to convict him and see him hung a thousand times over. The 'emergency' comm, he dropped unceremoniously into the small carry bag.

None of the remaining tools or records in the safe was so valuable that they couldn't be replaced, reproduced or were incriminating in the least. He kept duplicates of all his legitimate records on his 'records' comm and maintained the strictest firewall between his normal activities and his clandestine ones. In fact, he would never need a single record that remained on the desk. He would probably never need them again, at least not with substantial headaches and unwarranted irritation.

Kazimir didn't even bother closing the empty secure drawer. There was nothing left in there worth securing. The only things there were classified files from his nominal employment and benign personal financial records.

Storming out of his office the automatic door slipped silently open before him; automatically anticipating the swift speed of his movement, it calculated opening time well in advance and opened early so he didn't have to break stride. That convenience was of course beneath notice.

The annoying little redhead was standing in front of him, at the threshold, with another one of her stupid looks on her face.

Grinding to a halt for the first time since leaving his desk in the Citadel less than an hour ago, he snapped, What?!

She stuttered and stammered meekly, only infuriating Kazimir more, Kazimir, you know I don't ask about your business . . . ever, but what is going on? You never come home . . . ever . . . until late, and I never ask . . . but . . .

He barked, Get to the point woman!

She pinched her eyes closed in another of her annoying idiosyncrasies while he watched her suck in her lip and bit it softly. She finally spoke after a brief pause, . . . But you left less than an hour ago. Is something wrong?

Yes! Bloody well everything is wrong! Now get out of my way! He pushed past Diantha's shoulder hard enough to turn her sideways with a thump as he struck her. He snapped over his shoulder irritably, Pack. We are leaving.

Following Kazimir through the foyer and across the central living area to the bedroom, Diantha asked confused, Leaving? Why would we do that?

Because we have to that's why!

Her irritatingly calm nattering questions were really starting to piss him off, Kazimir . . . what has happened?

Ripping clothing out of the closet and slamming them into a travel bag, My careless idiot father is what happened. Throwing an empty travel bag back into her face from the closet, Kazimir snapped again, Go pack.

Why do we have to leave because of your father?

Kazimir's blood boiled anew, with his head down in the closet, as he ripped shoes off the shelves and shoved them into the bag. He snapped, Because we weren't at the dinner last night and what that moron did, in full view of the whole planet, on vid recording for all posterity, is what.

She asked stupidly, Is he in trouble, Kazimir?

Kazimir didn't even want to entertain the stupidity, Diantha! Stop asking these infernal questions and pack something! He is not in trouble. He is dead! We are in trouble! Now pack! Turning back to his pants and undergarments the soft 'plop' of the bag on the thick carpet was almost inaudible over the chaos he was unfolding in the closet.

He turned to face the irritating insubordinate bitch, with white knuckles in fists. Diantha mumbled meekly into his fury, No, Kazimir. You mean 'you' are in trouble . . . The terrified woman stumbled two steps backwards, I have done nothing, for the seven years of our union, but remain faithful and true to my husband, this world and our corporate empire . . . What is it you have done that you'd think we would need to flee, Kazimir?

Stepping forward, hunched in rage, Kazimir swept the bag into his left hand as he walked over it. He thrust it so hard into her breast that her hands reflexively closed over it to protect herself, not to grab the bag, as he intended. We are or will be shortly, accused of corruption, murder, treason and attempted regicide. Now pack!

Turning from the stunned mute woman, he covered only one step, before he heard her squeak, No.

Turning back to the ridiculous fool, What!

I said 'no', Kazimir . . . I am not packing . . . I am not leaving. Gaining speed, confidence, and moral conviction, the little bitch began to defy him more stridently, No, Kazimir. I have done nothing wrong; I will not flee like some sticky fingered petty criminal from the scene of a shopping kiosk heist.

Looming over the much smaller woman he rasped, quoting her, Like 'some petty criminal' is it? You are my wife, we are legally one person, and you will obey me. I am the rightful Lord of this Empire. You will do as I say immediately!

Her wide terrified green eyes shone bright with fear and something else . . . loathing, No. Treason, Murder and Regicide are individual crimes. The bag hit the floor at his feet again, I knew nothing of your designs and will tell Lord Phyllip under oath-questioning before a tribunal of the Peers of the Hegemony. I will stand gladly for the truth, willingly telling all I know.

Diantha felt her knees buckle, before she felt her wind escape or the pain from the punch her husband landed in her midsection.

Not finished, Kazimir's rage boiled over his shredded control. His left hand slipped harshly into her hair while his right cracked a sharp slap across her face. He had never hit this woman before. But after so many years of frustration it was nice to finally share his true feelings. Before now there had been no need to mark up his showpiece wife, he usually reserved this particular skill for the random whores his underlings had found for him over the decades. They were easy enough to drop off the towers and into the mists, where the impact and scavengers would devour the remains, before anyone who cared found them, when he was done with their broken bodies. It was harder to do that with a known society lady who would be missed; too many irritating questions would be asked.

Hauling back and unleashing his hand again and again, his rings ripped into her face. The blood poured and splattered around the room and onto him as she gasped for air and struggled to breathe through the crushing blows to her face all the while trying to sort the wind that was knocked out by the first punch.

Disgusted with the piece of meat he was holding, Kazimir opened his left hand and it fell boneless to the floor, still breathing. But then he noticed his clean white shirt had the bitch's blood on the front and sleeves.

Even more pissed off now that the worthless female had fouled his shirt, in addition to her puerile resistance and insubordination, his lips recoiled in disgust. The fetal curled, unconscious woman's mouth fell opened gaping and motionless as her dazed eyes and gashed swelling face blotted and distorted from her pristine silken lines to . . . something else.

Disgusted at the display Kazimir's right foot kicked her so hard in the jaw, her caught tongue clipped in a bloody mess, her teeth shattered, and her jaw bone snapped. The blow was so violent and traumatic that it even cracking her skull where the bones met.

Ripping the ruined shirt off without bothering with the buttons, he wiped his face and hands with its inside while walking into the bathroom to clean up, and strip off the rest of his clothes.

By the time he finished his shower he felt much better. He felt clean and crisp. He was ready to start the day anew.

The useless unworthy whore was sprawled in a spreading puddle of her own blood, as she lay on her back. Mouth filing with fluids and swelling shut. Her long red hair spilled in every direction, now matted to the floor and drenched in blood and urine. The worthless piece had fouled herself while he had showered.

Kazimir laughed and dropped the towel, on her face, as she lay unconscious and dying on her back. He stepped into the closet to get changed.

Whistling a bright tune on the way out of the closet, he tucked his comms back into his pockets. He checked to make sure both bags were where he left them without blood marring their surfaces. Kazimir casually pulled the larger clothing bag over his shoulder and carried the smaller travel bag that he had packed in his office in his right hand and he headed for the door, still whistling.

His left foot caught on Diantha's.

Enraged at the insult, Kazimir tossed the bags in the direction of the door, turned and viciously kicked her legs and side so hard and so many times that she flopped bonelessly onto her right side, still unconscious. Under the towel which had rolled off her face and bunched in front of her mouth, the pooling fluids spilled out of her mouth and onto the carpet. A tiny unconscious breath eked its way into her lungs.

Still furious he kicked his way up her back over her kidneys and into the ribs until he heard several crunch under his kicks.

He didn't stop because the crunches of cracked and broken ribs.

He stopped because he was tired.

He chuckled to himself as he went back into the closet to change his clothing again while he panted for air from the invigorating but unexpected exercise. He finished changing for the third time that day, leaving the bloody rags in a pile in the closet and walked back into the room. He was again careful to avoid the lake of blood that was spilling from her broken facial bones, ravaged mouth and lungs.

It always amused him just how much blood could spill from a human body.

Standing back again to catch his breath, Kazimir admired the curve of the whore's legs and hips. Her lacy and silken pink night shirt had ridden up, exposing tender flesh with fresh bruises forming. She really was a pretty woman. I should have used her more often. A new whore every week for all those years and this whore was at home waiting for me every night . . . Shame. What a waste. I wish I had time to use this one properly too.

Kazimir avoided the spreading stain by stepping deftly around the easily seen pooling blood. He scooped his bags back into their place, and hummed his happy tune out the door to the waiting elevator before dropping the many levels to his eventual departure point.

Kazimir whistled all the way down the length of his private elevator ride. He even smiled while he hummed. Once he stepped clear of the elevator car and began his long circuitous effort of disappearing into the pedestrian traffic and eventually to the bowels of the building all those floors below where his first elevator had reached its bottom floor.

He was in a surprisingly good mood given how miserably the day had started. The old adage about 'exercise improving a man's mood' must have been true. That and the freeing liberation of no longer needing to act like the pathetic distant supplicant to his inferiors was pleasant.

69)

Celine was extremely unhappy with her method of travel.

Over an hour had passed since Phyllip found Persephone in bed, literally in bed! Sleeping late and lounging after her little escapades last night. Persephone's little adventure apparently ending in a very risqué display of unladylike behavior when Phyllip had arrived. Celine huffed to herself, 'And that brutish Phyllip, after all these years, he still has the manners of a barn yard dog, barging in on a closed room, and without knocking probably. I don't know who to be more furious at, her for her display or him for not knowing better. Or both of them for not knowing and behaving better!'

Celine knew she would hear about the rumors that little stunt would generate for years to come.

Once her 'wayward daughter' had been recovered, the whole palace went into even more of an uproar. As if Thanatyos' betrayal wasn't bad enough, his near-do-well son disappeared only seconds after turning on his terminal in the palace Intelligence Offices. So while the head of the Empire's Security apparatus was dead by his own hand; his son and head of the Empire's Intelligence apparatus, who's comm was off all night, in his personal huff since his banishment from formal functions during his last unsightly outburst, had no news of his father's untimely death until he reached his office that morning.

It didn't take a starship drive engineer to connect those dots and draw more than a few dreadfully awful conclusions. None of which Celine wanted to voice out loud for fear of some superstitious jinx she could only pray to the eternal stars, never mind prayers to the family's pantheon, wishing her voiced fears wouldn't come true. It was a damnable situation.

That no one even thought to go over there to his place and pound on his door was infuriating to say the least!

The existence of such inefficiency and incompetence in such important roles in her organization was frightening. And worst of all . . . the whole thing functioned perfectly without Kazimir present! They had a major crisis transpiring and things were working better without him there. Kazimir really was the most useless piece of offal in the Hegemony.

Since Kazimir had taken just enough time to review the security feeds from the night before, along with all the other duly flagged information concerning the event, he had just decided it was better to run away than assist in the investigation that morning. She knew that barbarous man was not to be trusted but to think that his actions required flight as opposed to meeting his duty to Family and Hegemony cast all manner of suspicions on him, his character and his dealings.

Celine feared the worst.

While everyone was scrambling around trying to figure out why he left, Celine had finally thrown up her hands in frustration, removed herself from the mire of speculation and accosted the Citadel's Home Guard Quick Reaction Platoon instead.

The Lieutenant had balked at lifting the assault shuttle and the Reaction Platoon from the Palace grounds. But once she calmly explained that while his, the Lieutenant's, boss was a Home Guard Company Commander and Celine had politely asked the young man to name her boss he had to think about that. Her smile and cocked head had cut the young man off before he managed to finish enunciating the 'Lord' in the name 'Lord Phyllip Chroynos'.

Over the engine hum and the horrifically uncomfortable woven nylon strap seat, Celine unfolded her arms and grasped some manner of rope 'loop' above the door and her right shoulder, which was hanging from a thick metal beam over her head. Leaning left and over the center console and looking down at the young officer standing behind her, Celine asked, Lieutenant, I have a personal question to ask you. It's nagging curiosity mostly. Would you mind answering for me?

I don't know Lady Chroynos that depends on the question.

She laughed for the first time that day and definitely improved her spirits in this rattling contraption called a 'vehicle'. Fair enough. I will take that as 'cautious humor', and not 'youthful obstinacy'. You're not married are you?

No Lady Chroynos. How could you tell?

Smiling back to him and replied, I thought I was right. Think back to our exchange earlier this morning before we departed. You will understand when you get married. Her smile slipped away after she finished prefacing her more serious 'reminder' instructions to the Lieutenant, I hope we find nothing here but we are going to, using an archaic term, 'ring the bell' regardless and see if anyone is home. My nephew seems to be in some distress and we will check on him to see if he is alright.

Yes Ma'am! Gain entry, secure the interior, and locate friendly personnel. The platoon is already briefed; we only have a few seconds before arrival. Once we dock I will help you out, and we can move forward to breach.

Celine smiled sweetly, I have no idea what you said Lieutenant, but you sounded very convincing. I'm sure my husband can translate for me later at his leisure. For now I want to check on my family, not conquer a planet. The assault shuttle thumped to a jarring landing, surprising Lady Celine in her seat. Had she not been strapped in, at the Lieutenant's insistence, before takeoff she would have whacked her head on something and she knew it. Soldiers were already snapping to and moving with a violently precise form of absolute chaos she didn't understand at all. She asked and immediately felt stupid after, What now?

The Lieutenant paused briefly and explained, Now we deploy and I get you unstrapped, and then down to follow the platoon.

He leaned forward and his quick sure fingers flew over the levers, and buttons, and switches, and cords, and pull things, followed by his quick disappearance and then his face reappeared by the door to her side. He was only slightly shorter than her at the stepped down level he was at while standing behind her, in the aircraft. The swept up nose of the thing she had just flown in gave a dizzying view of the ground from its elevated, swept forward nose design and clear bottom plating. It was like being strapped to a chair and dangled over the edge of a very tall building with only a band of solid, incomprehensible, but utilitarian controls around your midsection, and the infernally uncomfortable straps everywhere over her body.

Celine had studiously not looked down at the whipping, buzzing, manic movements of the traffic and buildings below; it was hard enough to keep her limited breakfast down just looking straight ahead.

The view wasn't quite as daunting once she was only a few feet above the penthouse landing pad but she still needed the taller Lieutenant's assistance to get her down from the airship.

Approaching the door with the young Lieutenant she puzzled at the rectangle of dark triangular metal they had affixed to the door. Well within earshot of the soldiers at the door Celine asked loud and clearly, with a large chunk of her most patient and maternal clarity, Lieutenant, what is that?

He said proudly, It's a breaching charge Ma'am, the matter of fact delivery could have been about chocolate-chip or oatmeal cookies with tea.

Celine felt a mortified surge rising in her breast, 'Breaching?' Why would you need to breach? This isn't some common burglary; this is home to a close family member. Celine shaking her head just strolled past the soldiers as they looked confused behind their ballistic shielded face masks. Celine turned back to the Lieutenant, shaking her head, as her palmed security card slipped into the door lock, and the locking light winked green. Her Hegemony level access would have automatically opened all of the doors in the building. Never mind that her mother's family owned this particular building complex and some large number of others just like it. Of course that was all through multiple shell corporations and holding groups that made it all disappear and completely disassociated ownership from her name. Using either side of that family access she could have managed the same entry. Celine didn't like to advertise that fact though. Even Kazimir didn't know she owned the building he lived in, and she took a degree of satisfaction from that needling fact as she glanced at her rental income statements every month. Celine owned a large number of buildings as her own investment hobby but this one was already in her family's grasp so she never bothered transferring ownership, and there was no need to fuel the conspiracy nuts who harped about a handful of families controlling everything.

Her family was smarter than that after so many generations. There was no need to control the uncontrollable masses. They decided generations ago to follow the Earth play book and let people do as they pleased so long as they paid rent every month, didn't destroy her property. So long as that happened she had no problems with them or anything else they did to each other. Just taking their money every month was much lower stress than herding billions upon billions of uncooperative sentiments.

She indulged her idealistic side periodically but not the conspiracy nonsense.

Suddenly, soldiers scrambled to pull the high explosive breaching shape charge from the door as its locking bar inside the door thumped to the unlocked position and the door opened. They had to remove it before the charge could fall and strike the landing grid, or worse, one of their favorite tools would be ruined in the thick metal door frame as the doors retracted.

There was always a chance, though a microscopically thin chance, that they would be allowed to use it later in the day. And the way they say it, there was no point wasting perfectly good high explosives if you could actually, or possibly, use it to blow something up later.

The sarcastic flourish of Celine's hand and upturned palm, invited them into the dwelling. Her simple gesture chastened the soldiers who had just wanted to blow something up to start their day.

The Home Guard soldiers were the elite of the Empire's line troops, senior soldiers, every one of them a combat veteran and decorated soldier. They were on 'loan' from the Ground Forces Corporation, were extremely well paid and retained their individual combat campaign mineral rights residuals. Corporals in the Home Guard often enjoyed larger personal incomes than doctors in private hospitals. They were fiercely loyal, highly skilled and superbly motivated to protect the family and their Citadel. The down side was that they were all a little crazy, routinely started bar fights, and liked blowing things up a little too much. Celine shook her head with smile as they quickly filed past her into the apartment.

She stayed back at the Platoon Leader’s insistence and entered slowly behind the first three squads with the Lieutenant, followed by fourth squad that split and acted as rear security and the Lieutenant's headquarters section, in other words, Celine's bodyguards.

Shaking her head as the troops deployed crisply through the home, 'silly boys and their toys, always want to make things difficult'. As she slowly wandered up the stairs behind the squads to the incessant chorus of 'clear' while every team entered every room, and closet, and bathroom, and drawer, and cabinet. They put on quite a show . . .

The show was rhythmic and almost soothing until it was ripped by the call, Medic!

She asked firmly, hiding her nervousness, Lieutenant?! Stopping the young officer in his tracks, with her question and the simple touch of her hand on his left arm, as two soldiers tore past them at a sprint, What does that mean?

Nothing good, my Lady, He hesitated for a moment, I need you to stay here.

Frustrated, while the young officer abruptly sprinted up the stairs, even under all his armor and equipment. His cautioning request lasted with Celine until a count of maybe 'five', or a fast 'seven', before she started up the stairs after him.

The hand from her right surprised her more than anything, as it closed distance to her arm. It was slow and not offensive but the look on her face told everyone it was clearly not something she was interested in entertaining. Slipping her arm smoothly back behind her so the offending grasp missed her smoothly, the question in her raised eyes stopped the trooper instantly. The young trooper's jaw dropped behind his ballistic mask, as he realized who he was about to unthinkingly man-handle. Instead of her intended harsh rebuke, Celine switched to, Now didn't your mother teach you better than to handle women that way?

Her smile disarmed and chastened the young soldier at the same time, I'm sorry, Ma'am. He shifted back and forth on his feet, clearly uncomfortable, outside the door. His companions were also unhappy, Ma'am, Eel-Tee asked you to stay here. We don't call 'Medic' like that unless it is ugly . . .

Celine felt a wonderful, ere, scary, and churning sense of enormous pride that the young soldier would try and think of her own feelings before blind obedience to orders. She wanted to cry and cheer at the same time as she looked up at the much taller soldier, The only people in this home at this hour are close family. I need to see, her voice trailed to nothing imploring the soldier.

After climbing the stairs, on the opposite side of the apartment from Kazimir's elevator that deposited him next to his office earlier that morning, with the men who had remained after the Lieutenant left, finding the area of interest to her was easy. All she had to do was follow the clump of milling soldiers, bumping shoulders in their collective daze, and turning to shake their heads, as they left the bedroom.

She asked in frustration, Shouldn't someone find something to do other than look?

Celine's simple yet authoritative question kicked some Non Commissioned Officer out his trance. As he jerked back to reality, he started barking orders, to clear the way, set a perimeter, and any other number of military style make work for troops standing around gawking where they were non-critical to the situation.

What she saw when she entered the room turned her stomach.

The only way she could recognize Diantha was the red hair from her scalp. Her face was swollen black, and hair matted to the floor and discolored in an enormous lake of blood. She was blue on the skin that wasn't broken or bruised, and breathing shallow gasping breaths. Diantha's eyes were unfocused through the swelling and bruising of her broken face.

One medic barked, Check heart!

Light and rapid, the other followed.

Anything on her say her blood type? Is the blood-type strip ready yet?! What the hell's wrong with that thing?!

Negative, still nothing! I think this blood on her body is too dry for the typer to read. The carpet is contaminated with a chemical cleaning sealant that is giving error results, and she's damn near dry of blood, so we can't take any more from her . . . .

O Negative, Celine shouted into the mix. When all work stopped and eyes all turned to her, the Lieutenant was the third man kneeling in the blood puddle that was dispersed deeply into the thick carpet.

He looked up from inspecting the body for other life threatening injuries. Are you sure, my Lady? His imperative tone left no room for argument even from Celine. He was in his element. She knew by his tone he was deadly serious and that she should not question or second guess him, If you are wrong she will die! O Negative blood can donor to anyone but if they receive anything but their own blood type they will die. The young officer snapped, As much blood as she has lost, and with all these internal injuries, she doesn't have much time, and if we get this wrong she will be dead before we load her onto the dropship outside on the pad.

I am absolutely sure. She is the same as me, Celine's assured authority slipped momentarily at the questioning gazes from the medics and the Lieutenant. She mumbled, Sorry. Stupid girl tea party conversations sometimes get out of hand.

The Lieutenant snapped crisply as he realized she actually did know Diantha's blood type, No apology Ma'am, she is about to die. Can you donor right now?!

Celine's mouth worked silently in shock for a second before her brain caught up and engaged, Yes. Where do you want me?

Standing, his knees and boots dripping blood from the sodden lower levels of the carpet, he snapped, On the bed, lay down quickly. He looked around quickly for a better solution, finding none he repeated, We need you on the bed, it is elevated, and we won't have to move her.

Tubes and devices appeared rapidly in place around Celine as she lay back on the bed. After all the eons of Human medicine this critical situation still came down to a person to person transaction using little more than primitive tubes and metal pokers. While one of the medics and the Lieutenant closed all the wounds they could find. The other medic quickly started the transfusion. He cleared the line of bubbles in the blood, affixed a huge needle to the other end, fumbled with Diantha's arms and got frustrated with the constricted veins, and finally jammed it into Diantha's femoral artery.

Celine must have passed out when they stuck Diantha. At some point uniformed medical personnel had arrived. There were now the two military medics, the Lieutenant, and four medical service personnel working on Diantha.

Celine's head lolled bonelessly to her right and Diantha was no longer a sickly blue with cracked bloody purple lips. While not healthy, she no longer looked dead. Her perilous rapid breathing had slowed, and one of the medics was checking pulse and nodding his head in the affirmative. Diantha was still in rough shape and was obviously unconscious.

Diantha was always a sweet young woman, regardless of Kazimir's faults. Celine smiled sadly, until she heard something about neck trauma and a body board. Neither sounded good to Celine and the bustle of activity