Clegg made a move. Michael snapped, “I’d advise against it.” He was trembling—with anger? Fear? Disgust? It was difficult to assess. Lillith knew him like this. There were some things of this universe that were just too ugly for Michael to contemplate. They’d found the one thing that gave him backbone: sheer contempt.
“You may think you have his ear, but the Emperor will never, ever forgive this. We’ll never see Sparta again.” He pulled her around to face him, his nose curled and eyes narrowed. “And more to the point, from what you care: neither will Imperial Autonetics, the ITA, or the Bury organizations. You’ve ruined us. I’ll be stuck here forever.”
Lillith returned his look with an unruffled, unwavering stare, as she reached up and pried away his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear. They’ll take it well enough. It’s only business.”
But Michael was done. “Get out,” he spit.
“Gladly.” She barked at Clegg. “Do whatever you must to get me off this planet under safe escort.”
Clegg took a moment to think through this. He folded his arms, mentally calculating. He unfolded them, and counted off numbers on his fingertips. “That’s now Extreme High Risk. Extreme Hazardous Duty Bonus, with Lifetime Survivor Benefits.”
“Yes, yes.” She was already turning toward the Lynx. Clegg did not.
“You approve activation of the survivor benefits clause on behalf of Van Zandt Mining?”
“Yes, I said! Just get me off this planet! Get on with it!”
Clegg looked at Asach. “Witnessed?” Asach nodded.
But still, Clegg remained immobile. “Then call it in.”
Lillith gaped, about to object, but was confronted with the blank pane of Clegg’s shaded eyes. Whipped by stinging sand; confronted by those things hissing at the edge of the airfield, she was suddenly overcome with chill, sharing her son’s disgust at the sheer horribleness. “Oh, all right,” she snapped, and activated a ‘tooth, turning up the volume to cope with the howling wind. They could hear Van Zandt Operations in the background. She spoke briefly. The duty officer checked down his list of standard questions. “Yes,” came her icy answer to the final one, followed by her personal authorization. It was done. And then they crossed the tarmac and left, the Lynx’s engines flaming blue as it spiraled away to Saint George.
Saint George, New Utah
Trippe ran with devils on his tail. He was desperate, now. It was over. The battle was lost, the murder found out, and as far as everyone else was concerned, it was all his fault. He was out of facts on the ground. If they caught him, he’d hang.
He ran through the shuttered streets of Moorstown, where no-one even dared look out, shedding his uniform as he went. He was down to his pants and boots. He cut through an alley and nearly jumped out of his skin at wild braying. A man looked up, startled himself. He’d been about to untether a mule, now spooking at the end of its picket rope.
Trippe didn’t even pause. He shot the man, then shot the mule, scudding to a stop even as the poor creature fell. Trippe ripped off the man’s vest, then tunic, then baggy pants and boots. He jerked off his own footwear and uniform remnants; pulled on the dead man’s clothes. Slung his own utility belt as a bandoleer, slashed the picket rope at the stake, unbuckled the hobble from the dead mule’s foot, and coiled the rope as he ran.
He headed for a section of fence behind the FLIVR pool hanger. The FLIVRs were all out. There was nothing to guard. He took a gamble, and won. He hurled the hobble at the top of the fence. It caught with a banging clang, first try. He scaled the fence, unhooked the hobble, jumped down, ran on.
He snaked through abandoned buildings. There were no more battle sounds. He headed uphill, away from the surrendering ranks. His lungs were bellows. He kept the rope, but ditched the utility belt as he ran on.
He hit the back fence. No-one was there. He did the rope trick with the fence a second time. He looked up, up, up past the Oquirr foothills, into the mountains beyond. He could see the Van Zandt compound. Sun glinted off the glass wall like a beacon as he ran. He settled in to marathon pace. He was dumb as a post. He had the judgment of a jellyfish. But God, could he run.
His plan was simple. Nobody would guard the sheer cliff face. So he’d climb it. He’d climb it, like Alexander’s Macedonians taking the Rock of Sogdiana. They’d never see him coming.
Trippe was nearly right, but for the wrong reasons. He might have saved himself a good deal of effort with more brains, and less brawn. Van Zandt’s personal security detail were contractors. They were contracted as personal bodyguards, in a civil zone. They were not an army of mercenaries. Per contract, they had delivered Lillith Van Zandt to a secure location—her own compound. They had fulfilled the terms of their contract. Then, they had withdrawn. Except for one.
Fit, but the worse for the battle, the run, and the climb, Trippe hove puffing into the corridor leading to the conference room. The rest of the building was empty. There was no-where else she could have gone. She’d be there anyway, watching his progress on the big screen. Or, from her viewpoint, the blinking, stationary pip that was his utility belt, lying within the Security Zone.
Harlan Clegg blocked his way. “I figured you’d come.”
Trippe did not wait to find out how, or why. He aimed high and fast, above the Plate, but Clegg was faster, and already diving for the ground. Trippe just kept running, and aimed dead center the second time. He heard the bam as Clegg hit the wall then thudded to the ground, face down. Trippe skidded; grabbed the conference doorframe, spun to a stop, facing Lillith Van Zandt down the long, long length of the room.
Van Zandt was tap-tap-tapping on the conference table. As Trippe filled the doorframe, it went completely dark.
She looked up, the unruffled, polite gaze of a social hostess. “Dressed for carnival?” she smiled, “how delightful!”
He stood blinking for a moment, not comprehending the joke. “I’m not going down for this alone.”
“How droll. Who’s going with you, then?”
But there was to be no interesting repartee, not with Trippe. His long passages of militaria were memorized by rote. He possessed no wit of his own.
“You are. It’s over. Azhad got to the MPs and shut them down. The Bishop’s confined the TCM to barracks. Your invincible Friedlander Amour is burning in The Barrens. Your own security detail’s run. And they hold the landing zones. There’s no way off the planet. There’s no way out of the Zone. Hell, there’s no way out of the building.”
She contemplated him without answering. She thought she’d chosen him well. Duty, honor, die gloriously for Empire, and all of that. This was simply tiresome.
Trippe said, “I am not going to hang for treason. You tricked me.”
“Treason? Tricked you?”
“Just shut up. Just shut up, and get up. I’m not going down for this alone. You’re going to come with me, and we’re going to surrender, and you and your family lawyers are going to save me from the Tribunal.”
“I am?”
“I trusted you. I came to this godforsaken dirt ball because you said to. I served you well. “
“Not well enough, it would appear.”
At that, Trippe snarled, and lunged forward. Van Zandt folded her hands on the tabletop, unperturbed. “Care to dance?” she said, as Trippe tumbled to the floor.
It had felt like—just a tug, really. A little tug, like—like tripping over a wiry icicle. He tried to stand, but stumbled again. Something was wrong with his foot. Suddenly, the pain was incredible. He looked down; couldn’t make out what he was seeing. Half of his right foot was missing. Not missing exactly. There it was, in half a boot, lying behind him on the floor.
“Oh, dear. When dancing, you really should watch where you put your feet.” The pretty mask twisted into a snarl. “Because I really don’t like it when people step on my toes!”