The Gambit with Perfection (The Phantom of the Earth Book 2) (9 page)

“Hush now, my child,” Isabelle said. She uncoiled the minister’s fist and held her hand. “I understand your frustration. I’ll clear the rubble. I’ll rescue the survivors.” The minister tried to speak, but Isabelle cut her off. “You must keep your emotions under control and channel your anger in productive ways for the good of your people.” She dropped the minister’s hand abruptly and spun around, her chameleon cape swirling with more gusts. She eyed her Janzers. “Soon, my friend,” she twisted to the minister, “we’ll have our vengeance against the terrorists.”

When Isabelle arrived at the east side and the Seventh Ward, the destruction was far worse than she imagined. She smelled death and felt her back muscles constrict, as if Reassortment twisted her spine. She pressed her hand to her chest over the golden phoenix that hung from a golden chain around her neck. Mineral crushers, which consumed limestone and granite, would not be of use here; the structure of the territory had been compromised by the collapse.

Isabelle hand-signaled her Janzers, who coordinated their telekinetic energy within the ZPF; they removed alloy beams, granite, wires, pipes, carbyne, limestone, and corpses. When the Janzers had cleared enough debris, Isabelle stepped through the smoke. She halted, cleared her mind, raised her arms, and closed her eyes, concentrating her consciousness in the ZPF. Sensing the waves and particles of matter within the Earth as only she could, she opened her eyes slowly. She telekinetically parted the remaining debris, clearing a two-kilometer tunnel through the earth wide and tall enough for transhumans to crawl in.

She took controlled breaths to settle her singing heart. Her arms and legs trembled, while sweat budded on her neck.

You must hurry,
Lady Isabelle sent to the Gallians.
I won’t be able to hold this for long.

Thousands and thousands of men and women of the Seventh Ward crept out, first slowly, then so fast they looked like ants rushing to sugar. Isabelle feared they might crash into her. Their faces were covered with dust, their tunics and bodysuits torn, their bronze skin streaked with blood and bruises. They surrounded her in concentric circles, kneeling. When the last of the Gallians had escaped, Isabelle collapsed, and so did the rubble, spreading thick smoke toward the crowd.

Isabelle remained conscious. She sensed one of her Janzer divisions access the ZPF, forcing the smoke to the Granville sky where vents sucked it out of the territory. She heard a faint chant, noises that sounded as blurry as her vision. Soon she couldn’t mistake the words:
Serve Beimeni, live forever. Serve Beimeni, live forever. Serve Beimeni, live forever.

Their chorus gave her strength, and Isabelle Lutetia, Lady of the First Ward of Beimeni City, Supreme Director of the Department of Communications and Commonwealth Relations, and Master of the Harpoons, found her lips lifting in a smile. She pushed off the ground with her hands, reclining.

The crowd parted before her, revealing a group Gallians who made their way through the throng. They encircled her and lifted her above their heads. A Janzer division rushed forward, then stopped at Isabelle’s command. The Gallians kept the supreme director aloft, their hands grasped around her feet, ankles, thighs, back, neck, arms, and head. Their grips were strong and secure. Isabelle felt a surge of adrenaline flow through her. They raised and lowered her and shouted so loudly that she worried the rest of the city might crumble as well.

Finally, they set her on the ground on her feet. She raised and lowered her hands in the air, calling for silence.

“I cannot give you back your homes,” she began. She licked her lips and tasted minerals. She frowned, then continued, “I cannot bring your loved ones back from the dead.” Isabelle raised her fist in the air and moved it in rhythm with her telepathic message:
But I promise you, I will find the terrorists responsible for this destruction and bring them to justice!

The crowd roared. Isabelle moved her chin up and down swiftly, then hand-signaled the Janzers. Some began handing out clothing, food, water, and benaris; others began the reconstruction process, moving material through the air with ease of thought.

Lady Isabelle, along with a Janzer division, marched toward the intracity transports.

Beimeni City

Phanes, Underground Central

“Were you nervous when you delivered the Warning to the Barão Strike Team?” Lady Isabelle said.

“You’ve taught me to control my emotions well, my lady,” Valentine said assuredly. “I felt nothing.”

The courier sat across from Isabelle upon seating built into an oblong porcelain tub in the largest chamber in Phanes Spa. The warm soapy water steamed and bubbled close to their necks, smelling like crane flowers and torch ginger. The songs from violinists echoed from speakers upon pedestals. Yeuronian migrant workers dressed in silk gowns knelt behind them, massaging their naked shoulders.

“Good,” Isabelle said, “
good.
You did very well.”

“Did I?” Valentine crumpled her brow. “Then why do you look so sad?”

“It’s the steam and the essential oils, child.” Isabelle lifted the masseuse’s hands from her shoulders and ordered her to depart. “You’re finished too,” she said to Valentine’s masseuse. “Leave us.” The supreme director rolled her neck along the soft towel that sat upon the tub’s rim, and though she inhaled deeply, she didn’t imbibe flowery scents; she smelled death, spread from the ashes and winds of Northport. It was a scent she knew too well, one that didn’t easily evaporate from her nose.

Valentine inclined her head. She appeared older than an adolescent, with vibrant reddish-violet eyes, plump cheeks, thin lips, and long hair that twisted around her neck. “What troubles you, my lady?”

Isabelle worked with her couriers nearly as often as she did her Harpoon candidates. But where the candidates received accelerant injections to speed their growth to adulthood to within eighteen to thirty-seven days (depending on the developer), couriers passed from infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood over a traditional biological timeline of about twenty Earth years. Valentine never acted like an adolescent, excelling in math, science, and language comparable to the fully developed Harpoon candidates.

Isabelle wanted to tell her that the chancellor’s policies had led to out-of-control population growth and economic malaise; that Reassortment continued seeping underground and was as deep as one thousand meters inside the Earth; that the Harpoon Champion they hired to find a cure had failed to do so for far too long; that a terrorist organization formed by one of the commonwealth’s founders was systematically destroying the world she’d built; that she feared she was losing control of the underground—

Isabelle sighed. “You’re a perceptive one, my sweet.” She smiled wanly. “Come, sit by me.”

Valentine eased across the tub to where Isabelle sprawled, her arms strewn across the porcelain rim, her feet crossed and perched on the seating adjacent to her. “Will you brush my hair?”

Valentine nodded, and Isabelle telekinetically sent a brush to her from a nearby stand. The supreme director closed her eyes as Valentine eased the brush through her hair. She missed the days of her own adolescence, when her dreams had seemed as real as the commonwealth’s sky. “Have I ever told you about my own development?” Isabelle asked.

Valentine stopped brushing midstroke. “No, my lady,” she said, then continued.

“My developer was the finest in all Underground Central,” Isabelle began. “The Lady Faizah Marsellessa.” In her mind’s eye, Isabelle could see the lady in her gowns and capes, drifting from candidate to candidate, offering cookies and wisdom.

“Development in those days took about eleven years for a newborn baby to reach adulthood and qualify for the Harpoon Exams. When I was an adolescent, the lady let me watch performances of the Barremian Ballet at Hammerton Hall …” Isabelle felt sad, thinking about it.

“My lady?” Valentine said, and when Isabelle turned her head slightly, “you mentioned … performances?”

Isabelle pushed her hands through the warm water, imagining she was onstage. “Lady Faizah told me how I’d be like those dancers one day, athletic, beautiful, strong, talented, and intelligent. ‘The consortiums will line up during the auction, with the Barremian Consortium first,’ the lady assured me. ‘You’ll impress them with your dance moves and when you tire of that you’ll write plays for them instead. With your mind and body, you’ll be the most famous entertainer in the commonwealth.’ Alas, the lady was mistaken. I didn’t receive a bid from the Barremian Consortium, or any other.” Isabelle’s tone turned sour. “I was purchased by Chancellor Masimovian.”

“A great honor, my lady,” Valentine said.

Isabelle wanted to throw her head back and scream. Valentine, like most Beimenians, knew she’d been a Maiden of Masimovian prior to marrying the chancellor. What they didn’t know was that it took persistent effort for her to convince the chancellor to allow her to seek new employment; she failed in her effort to convince him to give up his maidens entirely and except for Maritza Menendes, the keeper of Reassortment Hall, no others followed her lead.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, my sweet?” Isabelle said. Valentine squeaked as her breath caught. “It’s not a trick question.” In lieu of being auctioned to the highest bidders after the Harpoon Exams, adult couriers completed civil service exams to maintain their spot in the commonwealth. If they passed the exams, they typically transitioned to roles in the great city’s Central Government District; sometimes they were granted aristocratic positions in the capital city or elsewhere in the commonwealth.

Valentine found her voice. “I have so much to learn, my lady, but … I’d love to be a lady, like you … one day … if you think that makes sense.”

Isabelle swiveled, facing Valentine. The courier’s lips were closed in a seam, her eyes clear and intense, filled with determination that reminded Isabelle not a little of herself. She pushed her forefingers through Valentine’s wet hair, swiping it away from her face. “How would you like to be the lady of the First Ward of Beimeni City?”

Valentine swallowed deeply. Her cheeks turned as red as overripe apples. “I couldn’t.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t.” She set the brush on the tub’s rim. “That’s my lady’s job and I’d never—”

“The First Ward of the great city is filled with nearly eight million transhumans and growing by the day. It’s the most populous ward in all the Great Commonwealth. You’d become one of the most powerful women in the country.”

“It’s such an honor, my lady.” Valentine trembled. “I’d love to.” She bit her lip. “Who would you rule then, my lady?”

“All of my candidates,” she turned away from Valentine, “all of my children.”

They lingered for a while, then wrapped themselves in towels and sat in the sauna, talking metaphysics and politics.

Later in the evening, Isabelle changed into a wrap dress, black but for the phoenix on the front, its long wings extending over her chest and shoulders. She took an elevator from her suite in Masimovian Tower to the Gallery of the Chancellor. Rays from the Granville sun shone at sharp angles from windows high above, lighting statues made of colorful marble, sculpted to represent the thirty territories of the Great Commonwealth. Chancellor Atticus Masimovian and his maidens didn’t see or hear her, too distracted by the feast that lay before them.
Let them choke and retch
, Isabelle thought,
every one of them.
She sighed and adjusted one of her many rings.

The maidens cooed, fed the chancellor with their forefingers, and filled his gold-rimmed crystal glass with cabernet sauvignon, synthetically aged two hundred years, the way he liked it. On the middle of the marble table sat two lobster tails as large as sledgehammers along with two filet mignons and three onions on a porcelain dish. Melted butter dripped from the lobster, which along with the meat sat in a bed of basil leaves and violet cabbage. Grapes, cherry tomatoes, strawberries, orange slices, cucumbers, and black olives formed semicircles around the meat and opened toward Atticus. Beside the dish stood three bottles of Loverealan wine, two of which were empty.

Isabelle clapped. The maidens pouted and scurried onto the terrace that overlooked Masimovian Center, their lingerie fluttering in the wind.

“Do you know,” Atticus licked the butter from his fingers, “how I’ve managed to keep peace for so long?”

He motioned for the two Jurinarian migrant workers on either side of the table to scram.

Isabelle sashayed around the table. “Naturally,” she said. She tossed her hair and sat on the table next to Atticus’s plate, giving him a good view of her. “Because you have me
.
” She took a strawberry from his plate and licked the whipped cream from it. “What other reason could there be?”

Atticus guffawed, then opened his mouth to receive the strawberry.

Isabelle got up and sat on one of the golden chairs next to him. She bit into the strawberry, letting the juice run down her chin.

“Hmm,” he said and licked his lips. “Isabelle, where would I be without you?”

“Best not to think on it.”

Atticus chortled and popped a grape into his mouth. “In the early days,” he slid his tongue over his lower lip and a seed fell to the dish, “I pondered whether immortality, this idea older than man, could sway the crowd.” He pushed a second glass filled with Loverealan wine in Isabelle’s direction.

“I remember, you would speak of nothing else.” Isabelle ignored the glass. Atticus seemed fairly soused already, and she preferred her advantage.

“Then I realized the only reason we
are
mortal is because we
know
we are mortal. Take age away from the crowd, and it will believe itself immortal and attach the idea of service to this immortality, and it will spread and take control of its host—”

“Perhaps even you still have a lot to learn.” She pushed the glass back to him.

Atticus closed his eyes and nodded. “Death,” he said, “no human timeline ended without it, and all because of aging—”