Keisha stared at the building on the hilltop ahead. “A castle. He’s got a literal castle.” The Colonel didn’t reply. Straggling bits of half-ruined wall extended out from the fortress in several directions, leftover from an older, larger system of fortification. The front of the main part, on the other hand, looked like it had had some extra bits added on in the years since the castle was built, a layer of modern cream-colored masonry work with red tiled roofs. But also some extra grey stonework in the original castle’s style, just to make it more visually confusing.
There was a small parking lot, mostly full of beat-up older cars. A few spaces were occupied by much shinier, newer vehicles, including a pair of glossy black limousines. Probably armored. Both had gold eagle emblems affixed to their doors, and matching laurel wreaths outlined across their hoods, framing the letters TM.
As they pulled into their space, a man sauntered out from a small house at the edge of the lot, an M4 dangling from his right hand and a Coke bottle clutched in his left. He was wearing ordinary camo fatigues with armor over them—not modern kevlar and ceramic, but gleaming layers of overlapping metal plates across the torso, with a matching helmet. He’d spilled some kind of sauce over the plates on his stomach, and looked grumpy. “Paramilitary parking attendants. Nice.”
Hampton rolled his eyes. “They’re called Praetorians. He’s got this whole Greco-Roman thing going on, I don’t know what it’s all about. But it keeps him happy if you learn all the names, so try to pretend you can take any of this shit seriously.” He opened the door. “Or at least keep a straight face.”
There were cigarette butts scattered around the parking lot, mixed in with bits of broken glass and a couple of brass bullet casings in the shadow of an overflowing trashcan. Weeds sprouted from the planters, and there was no traffic, car or foot, on nearby streets. Keisha was willing to bet most of the houses around here had changed hands, probably without much compensation, in the past few months.
She’d taken places like this before. Not identical, but the same rough setup: a warlord and his dirty little gang of hired toughs squatting in an impressive-looking building. But impressive-looking buildings weren’t always practical to secure. Not even literal castles. There would be odd corners nobody bothered to visit, cracked windows where she could safely send in a construct or two. The hardest part was always getting them in unnoticed.
The parking goon looked her up and down as they walked past him. Keisha ignored him. That kind of perimeter grunt wasn’t even worth using ectoplasm on; you left them for infantry to clean up once the facility was secure, assuming they didn’t run away at the first sign of trouble.
The front door led into a dismal, claustrophobic reception area that looked like it had done duty for a really creepy mental hospital, or maybe a prison. They got the promised pat-down there from another tough in faux-Roman armor. He at least didn’t try to grope her while he was at it; he might have been too hung over, by the look of him. Not that Keisha hadn’t been there herself, a time or twelve, after pulling off something major she couldn’t talk about. But generally not when she was on duty the next morning.
So much the better, really. Whatever they wanted her to do here, it would be much harder if Marshall had a lot of competent and dedicated staff. Some of them must be getting a second paycheck from NATO (and maybe a third from Russia) already. She made a mental note to ask Hampton about it later.
They passed quickly through the institutional part of the facility, just a couple of rooms—she spotted more men in shadowy corners en route, some armed, some not, a few uniformed, one just hanging out in a wife-beater and boxers while he shot the breeze with his buddy on duty—then into the castle proper. She repressed the urge to ask the Colonel what the deal was with this place. The new assistant to the military attaché in Athens would have looked that up already, but Keisha wasn’t up to date on her Greek history. Was this some kind of old commie torture site?
Hampton led her into a courtyard—at least, it was open to the sky, and she saw the tops of trees. But there were walls on either side of her, a roofless corridor that ran up to, then under, a little watchtower where a man with a rifle kept a lookout. He, at least, looked like he was sober and paying attention. Interesting.
Past the watchtower things opened up a bit, and she got a few seconds’ walk through an almost pleasant space, with trees and what looked like a little church. Then into a big tower in the wall, its entrance flanked by two more vigilant-looking men with bayoneted M4s. These two had actual tactical vests, even if they still wore old-timey helmets. Each had a little gold pin where the chest candy went on a dress uniform, shaped like (she squinted) a bundle of sticks with an axehead poking out the top. Whatever that meant.
Two more were waiting just inside the tower. One of them held his rifle at the ready while the other ran a dowser over them, then gave them a more thorough (but still professional) frisking than the fumbling skim-job she’d had up front. Nobody said a word the whole time, and when he was done the man with the dowser waved them up the stairs like they were expected.
This, she supposed, was it. Best to start preparing; beside her, Hampton was breathing a bit more deeply than necessary for the grade of stairs. Keisha’s technique for hardening would be a little different than the training he’d had, and trickier too. On the one hand, she didn’t want to let him yank her brain around on a string; on the other, she didn’t want to hunker down so hard that he figured out what she was. If he was stupid enough to think she really was some diplomatic flunky, or an ordinary spy …
There was only one man inside the room at the top of the stairs, and he wasn’t in uniform. Just what he was in was hard to say, but Keisha had never met a soldier, sailor, or marine who’d have taken any amount of pay to wear it.
He wore a metal breastplate shaped to look like a muscular torso, but also covered with tiny figures of soldiers and animals. A bright red cape hung down his back. The silver mask he was wearing was way too big for his actual face, and looked like an angry man with a beard. You could see a bit around his eyes, and his own mouth and chin showed between the angry face’s shouting lips.
His arms and legs were bare, except for a little skirt of metal strips hanging from the armor that rustled when he shifted his weight. The top of his head was bare too, bare and bald, with a fringe of grey hairs. Five-eight or five-nine, maybe, probably Caucasian, and at least middle aged. But still in shape, judging by the arms and legs.
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“Colonel Hampton,” his voice boomed out—the mask gave it a weird echoing effect. It swiveled to look at Keisha. “And—guest?”
“Lieutenant Sarah Lawrence,” Hampton supplied before she could. “New assistant to the military attaché in Athens.”
“And what does an attaché’s assistant do?” Marshall asked her.
“Any number of things, sir,” she answered. “Right now I’m here to get firsthand experience with—with the military situation facing Greece and its allies. Including yourself.” Did her awkwardness help or hurt her here? She wasn’t feeling a bit of the promised mental pressure—but then, she wouldn’t. She kept the image of a magnolia blossom firmly in the back of her mind, clear but not too clear. He wouldn’t be getting through that.
Marshall turned back to the Colonel. “You’ve been alone every time we met. Now you have an unannounced escort. What’s your superior’s name at the embassy, Miss Lawrence?”
“I report directly to Colonel Morris, sir.” She’d memorized the whole chain of command, and she was reasonably sure her story would hold up to some investigation.
“Really. Well, I don’t imagine the snail-eaters have many black women they trust with deep cover, so I’ll take it as an honor that they went the extra mile for plausibility here. The timing’s shit, though. Hopping mad, are they?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that, sir.”
“I don’t care what you know,” he said, flicking his fingers at her dismissively. “Just stay out of my business, or your bosses will have another lost asset to replace. So, Colonel Hampton. What does the United States want with the House of Marshall today?”
If Hampton was upset, he didn’t show it. He produced a somewhat crumpled manila envelope from inside his jacket and handed it over. “We’re planning a new offensive in the next few weeks. The timetable is somewhat flexible, but we need at least one emissor knocked out. There will be a need to collaborate closely on this, so—”
“So they don’t have time to swap in a new one before your attack. Obviously.” Marshall tore the top off the envelope and pulled out the thin sheaf of papers. “This isn’t going to come cheap, you know. Taking on emissors is a major risk, and theirs have good security. Unlike some I could name,” he added with a nod to Keisha. He sounded amused.
“We’re prepared to offer ten million.”
“Twenty,” Marshall countered at once. His eyes were flicking back and forth over the paper. “You want me to take out Myriad? You’re basically asking me to win the war for you.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Mr. Marshall. But yes, the primeval is our preferred target. A five million bonus if you remove her, with the condition that you do not acquire her for yourself.”
“How would you know if I had? But you do know I already have a primeval. Why would I want a second? They lack subtlety.”
Keisha shuddered. This monster had saddled a child with a primeval? Marshall’s mask whipped around in her direction, and she hurried to rearrange her face and body into perfect tranquility. He went back to the papers without comment.
“Is your government willing to accept the collateral damage this will cause if it comes to a clash between titans?” He said the last words with ironic relish. “It likely will, and ambivalence isn’t pretty.”
“Nothing about Istanbul is pretty right now. We’re more concerned with noetic capture at this point. One more reason to eradicate the primeval first.”
“Yes, I’m sure it has nothing to do with her being their best possible, and only remaining, air cover. You’re motivated purely by concern for the few remaining civilians who will have acquired obsessive-compulsive disorder over the last few months. And your compassion has inspired you to reach out to a humane man like me. Of course.”
“The mentality of Fatih’s civilians is a legitimate strategic concern, Mr. Marshall. We don’t need the headache of thousands of Turks who think and act like Russians.”
“You prefer them driven insane in a tug-of-war between emissants. Much less of a threat that way.” Hampton didn’t rise to the bait, and he went on skimming the papers. “Twenty at a minimum. Myriad is under very heavy guard. One of the other two would be much easier.”
“And we would accept that outcome. Knocking out any part of the troika introduces an exploitable opening in their defenses. As long as we know in advance which one it is, so we’re poised to take advantage.”
“Hmm.” Marshall looked down at a large map of Istanbul on the table next to him. “You’ll need to bring in ground forces to occupy, land or sea, and Akritas can give at least some cover for both. He’d make more sense as a target. And with Kostroma gone we could just starve them out.
“Unless this isn’t really about strategic considerations in the first place. I would likely lose at least one of my family in an attempt on Myriad. Two for the price of one, is it?”
“The United States values our partnership. It’s been very useful to us in the past, and we’d like to continue it in the future. Whatever you’re trying to insinuate—“
“And what about her government?” Marshall demanded, pointing at Keisha. “If you’re choosing partners, I suggest you choose very carefully. Times have changed.”
“We realize that—“
“No, you don’t. You’re still pretending, I can tell. You, and your president, and your senators, and all the other sad little trappings of a state, playing your asinine nineteenth-century balance-of-power games. But this is not a world of states any more, Colonel. Anyone with a brain has known that for some time. The state is as good as dead. I have more raw power at my disposal than any single government in western Europe, yet you treat me as a hireling. Is this wise?”
“We don’t mean to suggest—“
“You don’t mean anything. There’s no point in mincing words. The Marshall Family is not a mercenary contractor but a sovereign entity with its own interests. Those interests require money, and for the time being I am willing to exchange favors with your stupid anachronism of a government for our mutual benefit. You have had at least five years to see the long term trend, but you do not appreciate it. Or else you refuse to accept it, because you have too much invested in your own positions.”
Keisha looked at Hampton; his forehead was shining with sweat. Whatever defensive training he’d had, it wasn’t holding up. Hers was doing just fine—the magnolia still had all its petals—but she didn’t want to be in this room if Marshall totally lost it. It was less risky to intervene and distract before the situation deteriorated further. “Mr. Marshall, I think the situation is more complicated than you give it credit for.”
“Oh?” He leaned back, cocked his head at her, and put one hand on his hip, sweeping the other over his map. Very theatrical. “Enlighten me, then. I’m sure lieutenants in diplomatic postings know all kinds of things.”
“I have been briefed on the current state of the Istanbul front. Please consider, sir. Akritas can erect a very respectable defense, but it’s not insurmountable. I know it’s been penetrated by concentrated effort from another familiar on at least one occasion. You could do it yourself, couldn’t you?” Flattery wouldn’t hurt.
“Easily. But keeping it eradicated, while moving ground forces in? He can put those walls back up very quickly.”
“Yes, sir. And the occupiers could not move through the kind of concentrated fire needed to suppress them. But Myriad’s air cover is just as bad. And Akritas’s emissor is still a Greek citizen, even if he has shifted loyalties for the time being. You’re not the only person interested in acquiring new assets. Or, in this case, recovering old ones.” She’d just made that up, but it sounded good to her.
“Ahhh.” He sounded amused. For a long moment he looked at her, his head still cocked to one side. “They train lieutenants very well these days, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.” She glanced at Hampton again; he was clutching a chair with one hand, his chest with another. Tears running down his face. He wouldn’t be contributing much to this conversation any time soon. She thought she saw something move out of the corner of her eye, and resisted the urge to look at it directly.
“And the accent. Alabama?”
“Georgia,” she corrected. That wouldn’t tell him much, and it was easier to tell the truth than have more lies to keep track of.
“The French aren’t that good,” he declared flatly. “You’re a genuine American, aren’t you, Miss Lawrence?”
“Yes, sir. And still very attached to my state, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“And if I did mind? You already said it. Luckily, I’m not offended. America is at least not a nation-state. Your founders got that part right. America may well be the last to fall, though it will in the end. It’s done so well because it was modeled on another, much older, multi-faceted society, dedicated not to parochial interests but to the unifying power of an ideal. Capable of absorbing any and all comers, subsuming them all in the person of one man. America left that man out. That was their mistake.”
Oh, god. Why had she let herself say that? She didn’t want a political philosophy debate with a lunatic. “Yes, sir. But Colonel Hampton seems to be doing poorly. You have our offer, and I’m sure we could revise it to our, uh, mutual satisfaction. Could you please excuse us?”
“Certainly. As long as you promise to return before too long. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Lawrence. Lieutenant, I should say,” he added with a laugh.
“Likewise, Mr. Marshall,” she lied. Hampton was slumped against a wall now, breathing heavily and shuddering. Keisha could only pray he didn’t have a heart condition—but then, he’d been through this before, apparently. She could see now why he didn’t like familiars—and the thing she’d spotted from the corner of her eye was almost certainly a familiar. Whatever its valence was.
Hampton didn’t resist as she hauled him up by the arm and led him gently down the stairs. “That was maybe a little worse than usual,” he mumbled in her ear. “But I think he likes you now.”