She was already awake when the servitors opened the vat, reaching up with her own hands to help them unscrew the top.
That was progress. Most of the precursors had been docile. This one, however, had already woken and had even been strong enough to help.
The servitors helped her down from the lip, placing a towel about her shoulders for warmth. She instinctively knew to dry herself. She wiped the viscous, clammy amniotia from her skin in slow, measured strokes.
When the servitors brought her to the book, the words leapt to her mind before she had even fully remembered them. Her literacy returned quickly as she read. Some parts she skimmed, others she read and re-read carefully. In all, she completed her recall within an admirably quick time, resting at intervals on a bare bunk.
At some point, she dressed in plain clothes. At some point, she ate salted foodstuffs and drank distilled water. But throughout, she remained buried in the reading, savoring the memories as they returned, and nursing the seed of the grand scheme that still echoed from her mechanical birth.
By then, the servitors' work was done and they retreated to the waiting recesses. Until the next successor awoke, they would stand completely still in the gloom and silence of the Vault.
* ~ * ~ *
I am the eighth in the line of heirs of the body of Andrea Rache. I have slumbered in the vat while my precursors labored. My awakening means they are all currently dead.
The Agency placed me into the Vault with my sisters. My sole purpose, like that of my sisters, is to emerge into the world and to find and kill Cymbril Bortenach. Should I fail, Bortenach will kill me. The ninth in the line of the heirs of Andrea's body will awaken.
So it is written. May it please the Agency, I will prevail.
* ~ * ~ *
Borrowed Life (contest submission story) - completed
Borrowed Life (contest submission story) - completed
Last edited by HuManBing on Mon Apr 30, 2007 12:23 am, edited 1 time in total.
Cymbril Bortenach stood, pale and nervous, at the viewing room in the mortuary. He had never done this before, and his hand trembled as he pressed his nosegay over his mouth and nostrils. Before him, the mortician fumbled among the tables, peering at faces and toe-tags.
At length, he motioned them over and drew back the blanket to waist level.
Bortenach's manservant gave a choked grunt of disgust, quickly suppressed. Bortenach looked over the bloodied face and the matted brown hair, and nodded once curtly.
"Yes, that's her," he said faintly. He clenched his hand tighter over his nose and mouth. The trauma to the face and neck was gory enough. More disturbing still, however, was the pristine serenity of the woman's chest and arms. The skin was unblemished and porcelain-smooth in death, at startling odds with the ravages of her face.
The mortician nodded and appended a note to her toe-tag, peering through thick spectacles to do so. His tongue flickered at the corner of his mouth as he finished his scribbling.
The visitors returned to the entrance, where the gendarme asked for a signature. Bortenach looked over the statement quickly.
The decedent was found mauled to death in the Ecurie Verte tavern shortly after dawn. The proprietor, Guy de Gautet, had testified that she had broken into the premises, where the watchdog had attacked her as she trespassed, causing severe injuries to her face and neck before he could call the dog off her.
The gendarmerie had brought proprietor and staff into custody, but had released them after a few hours' questioning. The bleeding woman was taken to the hospital, where they proved unable either to identify her or to save her life from the massive wounds inflicted on her face and neck.
Shortly after noon, a travelling Mordentish nobleman had sent word to the gendarmerie that a servant girl of his had gone missing, perhaps in the same quarter. The nobleman gave an exhaustive list of lodgings where he had stayed in previous days. One such residence was the Ecurie Verte.
And now the nobleman had returned this evening to perform an unpleasant task. His confirmation would place the corpse as that of his servant girl. The confirmation would prove, by extension, that she was also a burglar who died while breaking into one of their hotels, for unknown reasons. For the implicit attempted crime, the nobleman agreed not to press any charges against the proprietor of the inn.
Bortenach nodded anxiously then reached down and signed "Jens Wolny". After that, they were free to go.
Bortenach and Dagras, his manservant, retained their guises until two blocks from the mortuary. Then Bortenach's stride grew more confident and the haggard expression dropped from his features.
His eyes grew sharp and his mouth grew tight with resolve. Beside him, Dagras straightened from his customary stoop and strode in quick paces.
"They're coming more frequently now," Dagras said. "I think we're rumbled."
Bortenach said nothing. A casual observer might have seen a young noble in a hurry, accompanied by a bodyguard perhaps. Dagras, however, knew his superior was upset. He mimicked Bortenach's silence until they reached the shadow of the Bell Tower, then parted ways in the darkness.
Dagras emerged alone from the shadow, this time with the slinking tread of a gravedigger.
The two met up again in a secure rendezvous beneath the surface. It was claustrophobic and dark.
"I think you are right," Bortenach said without preamble. "The Agency has learned it can defeat us simply by exposure."
Dagras snorted. "About time. It took them six tries before they learned they could not harm us directly."
Bortenach took a long, ragged sigh. He passed a trembling hand over his brow.
"We have two options," he said. "We remain, and try to find and stem the flow of Agents before they expose us. Or we pack up and leave for elsewhere."
Dagras nodded. "You know what Flavia and Guy think."
The cell leader looked up, his gaze abstracted. Calculating. At length he nodded with a weary gesture.
"The less Guy is seen, the better. Send him across the border to explain the relocation. I will help pack up the Ecurie with Flavia. You stay here and pack up the graveyard. When you're done, go immediately to the Secondary. We'll probably be a day or two behind you, but we'll be there."
Dagras nodded a final time and melted into the shadows. Bortenach calmed his breathing and took deep breaths to think clearly. Absent-mindedly, he brought the flask of fresh blood to his lips and drank, his heart racing.
They're sending them faster and faster, he thought.
* ~ * ~ *
At length, he motioned them over and drew back the blanket to waist level.
Bortenach's manservant gave a choked grunt of disgust, quickly suppressed. Bortenach looked over the bloodied face and the matted brown hair, and nodded once curtly.
"Yes, that's her," he said faintly. He clenched his hand tighter over his nose and mouth. The trauma to the face and neck was gory enough. More disturbing still, however, was the pristine serenity of the woman's chest and arms. The skin was unblemished and porcelain-smooth in death, at startling odds with the ravages of her face.
The mortician nodded and appended a note to her toe-tag, peering through thick spectacles to do so. His tongue flickered at the corner of his mouth as he finished his scribbling.
The visitors returned to the entrance, where the gendarme asked for a signature. Bortenach looked over the statement quickly.
The decedent was found mauled to death in the Ecurie Verte tavern shortly after dawn. The proprietor, Guy de Gautet, had testified that she had broken into the premises, where the watchdog had attacked her as she trespassed, causing severe injuries to her face and neck before he could call the dog off her.
The gendarmerie had brought proprietor and staff into custody, but had released them after a few hours' questioning. The bleeding woman was taken to the hospital, where they proved unable either to identify her or to save her life from the massive wounds inflicted on her face and neck.
Shortly after noon, a travelling Mordentish nobleman had sent word to the gendarmerie that a servant girl of his had gone missing, perhaps in the same quarter. The nobleman gave an exhaustive list of lodgings where he had stayed in previous days. One such residence was the Ecurie Verte.
And now the nobleman had returned this evening to perform an unpleasant task. His confirmation would place the corpse as that of his servant girl. The confirmation would prove, by extension, that she was also a burglar who died while breaking into one of their hotels, for unknown reasons. For the implicit attempted crime, the nobleman agreed not to press any charges against the proprietor of the inn.
Bortenach nodded anxiously then reached down and signed "Jens Wolny". After that, they were free to go.
Bortenach and Dagras, his manservant, retained their guises until two blocks from the mortuary. Then Bortenach's stride grew more confident and the haggard expression dropped from his features.
His eyes grew sharp and his mouth grew tight with resolve. Beside him, Dagras straightened from his customary stoop and strode in quick paces.
"They're coming more frequently now," Dagras said. "I think we're rumbled."
Bortenach said nothing. A casual observer might have seen a young noble in a hurry, accompanied by a bodyguard perhaps. Dagras, however, knew his superior was upset. He mimicked Bortenach's silence until they reached the shadow of the Bell Tower, then parted ways in the darkness.
Dagras emerged alone from the shadow, this time with the slinking tread of a gravedigger.
The two met up again in a secure rendezvous beneath the surface. It was claustrophobic and dark.
"I think you are right," Bortenach said without preamble. "The Agency has learned it can defeat us simply by exposure."
Dagras snorted. "About time. It took them six tries before they learned they could not harm us directly."
Bortenach took a long, ragged sigh. He passed a trembling hand over his brow.
"We have two options," he said. "We remain, and try to find and stem the flow of Agents before they expose us. Or we pack up and leave for elsewhere."
Dagras nodded. "You know what Flavia and Guy think."
The cell leader looked up, his gaze abstracted. Calculating. At length he nodded with a weary gesture.
"The less Guy is seen, the better. Send him across the border to explain the relocation. I will help pack up the Ecurie with Flavia. You stay here and pack up the graveyard. When you're done, go immediately to the Secondary. We'll probably be a day or two behind you, but we'll be there."
Dagras nodded a final time and melted into the shadows. Bortenach calmed his breathing and took deep breaths to think clearly. Absent-mindedly, he brought the flask of fresh blood to his lips and drank, his heart racing.
They're sending them faster and faster, he thought.
* ~ * ~ *
Rache emerged not far from the Town Square after midnight.
She wore a dark cloak that hid her face, as the book instructed her. She completed her rendezvous with an Agency member who came down to meet her by the dockside. Upstairs in a flophouse, the Agency member gave her a shortsword, a flintlock pistol, and ball and powder, as well as a verbal report of the Kargat's known headquarters in Port-a-Lucine.
Rache needed more than one repetition to memorize it. These new developments were not part of the experiences of the progenitor Andrea, and she found no memories to aid her. The Agent concluded with a passably accurate description of her predecessor's death at the Ecurie Verte. There, Andrea Rache - seventh of the heirs of the body - had come to a bad end in her pursuit of Bortenach.
Time was of the essence, the Agent said. It had taken her predecessor a few weeks to find Bortenach. Now, the trail was only barely a day old. It was possible the Agency might catch him yet!
Rache emerged into the cold night air with the pistol strapped by her side. She felt a strange sensation of falling, falling, as she made her way back into the city.
* ~ * ~ *
Guy had been lucky. The assassin had made her way during daylight hours to the quiet tavern when the staff were off, and Guy's bite silenced her permanently. Regaining his human form, Guy had brought little Peculo in on a leash, and commanded him to savage the face of the dying woman. That done, Guy called for the gendarmes and submitted to their custody, even as Flavia rushed across town to summon Bortenach, their leader.
From there, Bortenach and Dagras had settled the matter. No gendarme particularly cared to be involved in a foreign nobleman's troubles, especially where a foreign servant girl was implicitly guilty of burglary.
Still, it had been a close thing. Now, Guy loped on all fours towards the border, to meet with their messenger. The attacks were too coordinated and coming too quickly to suggest anything else - sooner or later, the Agency would succeed in exposing a Kargat agent, and the entire Port-a-Lucine cell might unravel.
Better to pull back and regroup slowly than to face extermination.
Behind the Ecurie Verte, Bortenach carefully stowed a chest on the horse-cart, then wiped his hands, grimacing at the dust. There was still much to do.
He turned back towards the inn, mentally planning out which papers to retain and which to burn. Already, they had retrieved the strongbox key from the well and Flavia was already sorting through their portables and their immobiles.
He returned to the inn through the rear kitchen door. Minutes later, a cloaked shadow detached herself from the surroundings, and crept closer.
She wore a dark cloak that hid her face, as the book instructed her. She completed her rendezvous with an Agency member who came down to meet her by the dockside. Upstairs in a flophouse, the Agency member gave her a shortsword, a flintlock pistol, and ball and powder, as well as a verbal report of the Kargat's known headquarters in Port-a-Lucine.
Rache needed more than one repetition to memorize it. These new developments were not part of the experiences of the progenitor Andrea, and she found no memories to aid her. The Agent concluded with a passably accurate description of her predecessor's death at the Ecurie Verte. There, Andrea Rache - seventh of the heirs of the body - had come to a bad end in her pursuit of Bortenach.
Time was of the essence, the Agent said. It had taken her predecessor a few weeks to find Bortenach. Now, the trail was only barely a day old. It was possible the Agency might catch him yet!
Rache emerged into the cold night air with the pistol strapped by her side. She felt a strange sensation of falling, falling, as she made her way back into the city.
* ~ * ~ *
Guy had been lucky. The assassin had made her way during daylight hours to the quiet tavern when the staff were off, and Guy's bite silenced her permanently. Regaining his human form, Guy had brought little Peculo in on a leash, and commanded him to savage the face of the dying woman. That done, Guy called for the gendarmes and submitted to their custody, even as Flavia rushed across town to summon Bortenach, their leader.
From there, Bortenach and Dagras had settled the matter. No gendarme particularly cared to be involved in a foreign nobleman's troubles, especially where a foreign servant girl was implicitly guilty of burglary.
Still, it had been a close thing. Now, Guy loped on all fours towards the border, to meet with their messenger. The attacks were too coordinated and coming too quickly to suggest anything else - sooner or later, the Agency would succeed in exposing a Kargat agent, and the entire Port-a-Lucine cell might unravel.
Better to pull back and regroup slowly than to face extermination.
Behind the Ecurie Verte, Bortenach carefully stowed a chest on the horse-cart, then wiped his hands, grimacing at the dust. There was still much to do.
He turned back towards the inn, mentally planning out which papers to retain and which to burn. Already, they had retrieved the strongbox key from the well and Flavia was already sorting through their portables and their immobiles.
He returned to the inn through the rear kitchen door. Minutes later, a cloaked shadow detached herself from the surroundings, and crept closer.
Last edited by HuManBing on Sun Sep 21, 2008 8:04 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Downstairs, Flavia fed papers to the fires and sorted piles of findings, her crimson hair tied back in a gypsy's scarf. All of these stacks of papers, penned in Bortenach's own neat handwriting, were no longer of use to the cell. Thousands of hours of research and record-keeping, extinguished in one night because of the cell's forced relocation.
Flavia's mouth was set in a pursed line and her brow was furrowed with concern, although her face softened somewhat when she saw Bortenach in the doorway.
Bortenach gave a lopsided smile, part pride, part regret, as he looked in on her. Those were the short-term findings, the ones that were most likely to outdate and thus occupied lowest priorities. When the cell moved, they would be pressed for time and portability. Even hard work such as this was vulnerable to jettison.
Bortenach climbed the stairs to the upper archive, hidden behind a fireplace in the innkeep's study. Here, he had collected vast reserves of information that would need sorting: on the Dementlieuvian army, on the Mordentish trade at the port, even on the latest technological innovations available only to the nobles.
He had dossiers on merchant families and their high and mighty business. More practically, he had files on their black sheep and their hushed affairs and social transgressions. Going along the shelf with an open trunk, he plucked and dropped folders selectively, saving the ones that would continue to be useful after the relocation.
The rest he swept into a bag, which he tied securely and dropped down the chimney. Downstairs in the basement, Flavia would see it arrive in a puff of embers and smoke, and consign it to the fires.
Bortenach stood up, flexing the muscles in his back. A goblet of blood stood at the table's edge, only half-drunk. At times of high pressure, Bortenach tried to ration himself, especially now that his cell would be going into hiding.
Unlike his more monstrous full-fledged kin, Bortenach merely needed to drink some blood in addition to more mundane dietary requirements. Flavia had a steady supply of fresh blood brought to the house and stored in the wine cellars. Sometimes, when Bortenach was uptown, he made use of leech doctors and their discards to slake his thirst.
These concerns rarely got in the way of his research, which he had pared down to an art form.
He bit his lip as he looked at a folder on the d'Entavis mercantile family. Once, he had won favor with an aged great-aunt in the family at a social event, earning himself a valuable informant there. In her, he had seen something that reminded him of his mother, still living in his childhood home back in Darkon. It was easy for him to lavish his attention on the d'Entavis matriarch during the evening's gaudy entertainment.
Her letters to him filled many a folder with a lonely elder lady's musings and endless illuminating gossip about her family affairs, and their doings and whereabouts. His letters back had been written with the affectionate tone of a favored son, and not entirely feigned, either.
Ultimately, it was all devoted work and sustained correspondence, and useful too. But, Bortenach reflected sadly, not useful enough.
He bound it and dropped it into the chimney.
* ~ * ~ *
Flavia's mouth was set in a pursed line and her brow was furrowed with concern, although her face softened somewhat when she saw Bortenach in the doorway.
Bortenach gave a lopsided smile, part pride, part regret, as he looked in on her. Those were the short-term findings, the ones that were most likely to outdate and thus occupied lowest priorities. When the cell moved, they would be pressed for time and portability. Even hard work such as this was vulnerable to jettison.
Bortenach climbed the stairs to the upper archive, hidden behind a fireplace in the innkeep's study. Here, he had collected vast reserves of information that would need sorting: on the Dementlieuvian army, on the Mordentish trade at the port, even on the latest technological innovations available only to the nobles.
He had dossiers on merchant families and their high and mighty business. More practically, he had files on their black sheep and their hushed affairs and social transgressions. Going along the shelf with an open trunk, he plucked and dropped folders selectively, saving the ones that would continue to be useful after the relocation.
The rest he swept into a bag, which he tied securely and dropped down the chimney. Downstairs in the basement, Flavia would see it arrive in a puff of embers and smoke, and consign it to the fires.
Bortenach stood up, flexing the muscles in his back. A goblet of blood stood at the table's edge, only half-drunk. At times of high pressure, Bortenach tried to ration himself, especially now that his cell would be going into hiding.
Unlike his more monstrous full-fledged kin, Bortenach merely needed to drink some blood in addition to more mundane dietary requirements. Flavia had a steady supply of fresh blood brought to the house and stored in the wine cellars. Sometimes, when Bortenach was uptown, he made use of leech doctors and their discards to slake his thirst.
These concerns rarely got in the way of his research, which he had pared down to an art form.
He bit his lip as he looked at a folder on the d'Entavis mercantile family. Once, he had won favor with an aged great-aunt in the family at a social event, earning himself a valuable informant there. In her, he had seen something that reminded him of his mother, still living in his childhood home back in Darkon. It was easy for him to lavish his attention on the d'Entavis matriarch during the evening's gaudy entertainment.
Her letters to him filled many a folder with a lonely elder lady's musings and endless illuminating gossip about her family affairs, and their doings and whereabouts. His letters back had been written with the affectionate tone of a favored son, and not entirely feigned, either.
Ultimately, it was all devoted work and sustained correspondence, and useful too. But, Bortenach reflected sadly, not useful enough.
He bound it and dropped it into the chimney.
* ~ * ~ *
Grey light filtered through the square of the window. Bortenach's glass stood empty.
His tie askew, he stretched his exhausted frame and went downstairs. Wiping the water that collected in his eyes from a particularly fearsome yawn, he stepped down into the common room.
And came face to face with Andrea Rache.
The surprise must have told in both their expressions. Bortenach's mind filled with the vision of the dead corpse in the coroner's office, with the brown hair above the mauled meat of the face. Then he realized that this was the woman who wanted to kill him, the Agent of the Agency who kept coming back from the grave, somehow. His hand flew to his side, where the only weapon he carried was a stout knife.
Rache, for her part, wasted no time in drawing her own short sword in a fluid motion, and leaping towards Bortenach. The two met in a twisting flurry of limbs, with hands at throats, blades fighting to free themselves from the scrum and descend in a decisive blow. Their labored gasping filled the air in strained silence, Rache unwilling to risk bringing further Kargat allies to the fight. Likewise, Bortenach knew Flavia was too distant to help, and that the nearby rooms contained sleeping civilian customers who would bring the gendarmes back in a heartbeat.
In near-silence, Rache fought to bring her knee up, then her heel down, then the knife around and up. Bortenach pushed her back, then forced her to the wall, keeping her hands away from his midriff.
"You die, Kargat!" Rache spat, in a moment when their faces were clear.
Bortenach caught her wrist with both hands, dropping his blade and focussing on freeing the knife from her grasp. He dragged her arms down below his own and to the side, away from his sternum.
"Who are you?" he hissed. "Did d'Honaire send you? d'Entavis?"
In response, she bit him hard on the wrist, freeing her sword hand to stab him in the side. He landed a hard blow against her jaw and the world went blurry as the wall floated by her eyes.
Dazed, she half-ran, half-staggered away from him and out of the room. She regained her full senses just as he got to his feet again. At that point, she kicked closed the door and ran down the corridor to the end door.
Bortenach crashed into the door as it shut, further aggravating the pain in his injury. He bit his lip and mouthed a curse as he reached for the doorknob. As he entered the corridor, the water closet door slammed shut.
He stood, breathing heavily for a while. The damnable assassin had stabbed him! Blood was going everywhere.
"Honestly, who kills the fact-finder?" he muttered to himself. Then, gathering himself, he walked cautiously down to the bathroom, knowing his prey was trapped.
The moment Rache pulled the door closed behind her, she knew she had made a wrong turn. She scanned the room, looking for any windows. It had been wrong for her to come here so unprepared, she thought. The Agency just wanted to gamble it all on a last-minute follow-up strike. She was no match for this Cymbril Bortenach, now that she had finally met him face-to-face. It was her foolishness and the Agency's desperation that led to this.
The only window here was high up, and very small. She was considering climbing up to it, when a knock came at the bathroom door. She froze.
"Hello?"
A pause.
"Anybody there?"
Another pause. On the other side, Bortenach tried, unsuccessfully, to light a cigarette with one blood-soaked hand and one clean one. He sighed and dropped the spent match.
"Now see here, this really won't do," he said. "Soyons raisonnables. You want to kill me, that much you've made perfectly clear. But this is the seventh or eighth time. Don't you think you'd be far better off finding some other line of work?"
Silence on the inside. Even with his preternaturally sensitive hearing, Bortenach could make out nothing. He struck a second match and tried to get the cigarette to take.
"As for me, I'm none too keen on dying," he said cordially. "We've ever so much work to do. So how about we make an agreement... I'll let you go, and you promise categorically never to try to kill me or my friends again - how does that strike you?"
He put his eye to the keyhole, and for a second he saw Andrea's eye at the same opening, blinking in surprise or consternation - he couldn't tell which. Bortenach smiled at this, piqued at the unintentional comedy of the situation: two combatants, mimicking each other's moves on the opposite sides of a door.
Before he could say anything, though, the woman's eye disappeared, replaced by a round metallic circle. As she pulled the trigger and the powder took, a blossom of fire burst into his consciousness, ending the negotiations permanently.
* ~ * ~ *
Rache sleeps, for the first night of her life, in the bare attic of a docking warehouse. She sleeps the sweet, untroubled repose of a child, whose concerns are fleeting and whose next adventure is the next day of her life. If she dreams at all of the vats and the servitors and the Vault with the heirs of the body of Andrea, it is a fleeting dream at best. She dreams mostly of the future - a bright, unmarked book waiting for her to fill.
She sleeps safe in the knowledge that Bortenach is finally dead.
* ~ * ~ *
His tie askew, he stretched his exhausted frame and went downstairs. Wiping the water that collected in his eyes from a particularly fearsome yawn, he stepped down into the common room.
And came face to face with Andrea Rache.
The surprise must have told in both their expressions. Bortenach's mind filled with the vision of the dead corpse in the coroner's office, with the brown hair above the mauled meat of the face. Then he realized that this was the woman who wanted to kill him, the Agent of the Agency who kept coming back from the grave, somehow. His hand flew to his side, where the only weapon he carried was a stout knife.
Rache, for her part, wasted no time in drawing her own short sword in a fluid motion, and leaping towards Bortenach. The two met in a twisting flurry of limbs, with hands at throats, blades fighting to free themselves from the scrum and descend in a decisive blow. Their labored gasping filled the air in strained silence, Rache unwilling to risk bringing further Kargat allies to the fight. Likewise, Bortenach knew Flavia was too distant to help, and that the nearby rooms contained sleeping civilian customers who would bring the gendarmes back in a heartbeat.
In near-silence, Rache fought to bring her knee up, then her heel down, then the knife around and up. Bortenach pushed her back, then forced her to the wall, keeping her hands away from his midriff.
"You die, Kargat!" Rache spat, in a moment when their faces were clear.
Bortenach caught her wrist with both hands, dropping his blade and focussing on freeing the knife from her grasp. He dragged her arms down below his own and to the side, away from his sternum.
"Who are you?" he hissed. "Did d'Honaire send you? d'Entavis?"
In response, she bit him hard on the wrist, freeing her sword hand to stab him in the side. He landed a hard blow against her jaw and the world went blurry as the wall floated by her eyes.
Dazed, she half-ran, half-staggered away from him and out of the room. She regained her full senses just as he got to his feet again. At that point, she kicked closed the door and ran down the corridor to the end door.
Bortenach crashed into the door as it shut, further aggravating the pain in his injury. He bit his lip and mouthed a curse as he reached for the doorknob. As he entered the corridor, the water closet door slammed shut.
He stood, breathing heavily for a while. The damnable assassin had stabbed him! Blood was going everywhere.
"Honestly, who kills the fact-finder?" he muttered to himself. Then, gathering himself, he walked cautiously down to the bathroom, knowing his prey was trapped.
The moment Rache pulled the door closed behind her, she knew she had made a wrong turn. She scanned the room, looking for any windows. It had been wrong for her to come here so unprepared, she thought. The Agency just wanted to gamble it all on a last-minute follow-up strike. She was no match for this Cymbril Bortenach, now that she had finally met him face-to-face. It was her foolishness and the Agency's desperation that led to this.
The only window here was high up, and very small. She was considering climbing up to it, when a knock came at the bathroom door. She froze.
"Hello?"
A pause.
"Anybody there?"
Another pause. On the other side, Bortenach tried, unsuccessfully, to light a cigarette with one blood-soaked hand and one clean one. He sighed and dropped the spent match.
"Now see here, this really won't do," he said. "Soyons raisonnables. You want to kill me, that much you've made perfectly clear. But this is the seventh or eighth time. Don't you think you'd be far better off finding some other line of work?"
Silence on the inside. Even with his preternaturally sensitive hearing, Bortenach could make out nothing. He struck a second match and tried to get the cigarette to take.
"As for me, I'm none too keen on dying," he said cordially. "We've ever so much work to do. So how about we make an agreement... I'll let you go, and you promise categorically never to try to kill me or my friends again - how does that strike you?"
He put his eye to the keyhole, and for a second he saw Andrea's eye at the same opening, blinking in surprise or consternation - he couldn't tell which. Bortenach smiled at this, piqued at the unintentional comedy of the situation: two combatants, mimicking each other's moves on the opposite sides of a door.
Before he could say anything, though, the woman's eye disappeared, replaced by a round metallic circle. As she pulled the trigger and the powder took, a blossom of fire burst into his consciousness, ending the negotiations permanently.
* ~ * ~ *
Rache sleeps, for the first night of her life, in the bare attic of a docking warehouse. She sleeps the sweet, untroubled repose of a child, whose concerns are fleeting and whose next adventure is the next day of her life. If she dreams at all of the vats and the servitors and the Vault with the heirs of the body of Andrea, it is a fleeting dream at best. She dreams mostly of the future - a bright, unmarked book waiting for her to fill.
She sleeps safe in the knowledge that Bortenach is finally dead.
* ~ * ~ *
Last edited by HuManBing on Mon Apr 30, 2007 6:29 am, edited 1 time in total.
Aquinus reached out a hand to receive the synopsis report. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered, but could not resist staring at the ring on the Master's bony finger.
This one is a valued researcher, the Master opined. There were no words spoken; the nature of the bond was such that Aquinus heard the Voice immediately in his own skull. It took some getting used to, but Aquinus had had nearly fifteen decades to do so.
Aquinus nodded mutely.
Not much of a combatant, naturally. He's only half of what you are. But he fits in well with the foreigners, the Master mused. And he's one of our best fact-finders anywhere.
If Aquinus' heart still beat, he would have waited several heartbeats. As it was, he just waited.
The parchment with the Master's edict floated back to him through the air.
Very well. Go to the Room of Life and remove another.
Aquinus bowed low. "Yes, my Master," he rasped, and left.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the Room of Life, much to his discomfort. After only a few minutes' work, he found the relevant misty column, and thereafter extracted the correct sample.
Bortenach - second of the heirs of the body of Cymbril Bortenach - was already awake when Aquinus opened the misty pillar, reaching out with his own hands to grasp Aquinus.
That was progress. The earlier precursor had been docile. This one, however, had already woken and had even been strong enough to help.
Aquinus helped him down from the pillar, placing a towel about his shoulders for warmth. There was no need for him to dry himself - the Room of Life kept him alive without need for amniota.
When Aquinus brought him his book, the words leapt to his mind before he had even fully remembered them. His literacy returned quickly as he read. Some parts he skimmed, others he read and re-read carefully. In all, he completed his recall within an admirably quick time, savoring the memories as they returned, and nursing the seed of the grand scheme that still echoed from his mystical birth.
By then, Aquinus' work was done and he retired to the his work. Until the next successor awoke, Aquinus would have many other tasks to occupy him, in the cloisters and shadows of Castle Avernus.
This one is a valued researcher, the Master opined. There were no words spoken; the nature of the bond was such that Aquinus heard the Voice immediately in his own skull. It took some getting used to, but Aquinus had had nearly fifteen decades to do so.
Aquinus nodded mutely.
Not much of a combatant, naturally. He's only half of what you are. But he fits in well with the foreigners, the Master mused. And he's one of our best fact-finders anywhere.
If Aquinus' heart still beat, he would have waited several heartbeats. As it was, he just waited.
The parchment with the Master's edict floated back to him through the air.
Very well. Go to the Room of Life and remove another.
Aquinus bowed low. "Yes, my Master," he rasped, and left.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the Room of Life, much to his discomfort. After only a few minutes' work, he found the relevant misty column, and thereafter extracted the correct sample.
Bortenach - second of the heirs of the body of Cymbril Bortenach - was already awake when Aquinus opened the misty pillar, reaching out with his own hands to grasp Aquinus.
That was progress. The earlier precursor had been docile. This one, however, had already woken and had even been strong enough to help.
Aquinus helped him down from the pillar, placing a towel about his shoulders for warmth. There was no need for him to dry himself - the Room of Life kept him alive without need for amniota.
When Aquinus brought him his book, the words leapt to his mind before he had even fully remembered them. His literacy returned quickly as he read. Some parts he skimmed, others he read and re-read carefully. In all, he completed his recall within an admirably quick time, savoring the memories as they returned, and nursing the seed of the grand scheme that still echoed from his mystical birth.
By then, Aquinus' work was done and he retired to the his work. Until the next successor awoke, Aquinus would have many other tasks to occupy him, in the cloisters and shadows of Castle Avernus.