Shadows and Smoke

  Shadows and Smoke

  Rich X Curtis

  © 2020 by Rich X Curtis

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. For permissions, contact the publisher: Arrow North LLC, 2 Margin Street #341, Salem, MA 01970 or hello@arrownorth.co

  Cover design: Lisa McKenna, Arrow North, LLC. Photography: LStockStudio, Mohammed Ali Abdo, and NeoStock

  Shadows and Smoke is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  The Eagle’s Nest, Austrian Province

  The Kaiserreich Empire, circa AD 2100

  “Come with me,” Tarl told the security officer. “We have a traitor.”

  The man’s hard eyes burrowed into him for a long second before he turned to his men and nodded. Tarl turned on his heel and stalked away, motioning the others to follow. Four of them ought to be enough. He only needed a few minutes alone with the Kaiser. Once settled, he would find a way out of this place, and wait for Recall. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. It was impossible to plan such things in this place. Eyes were everywhere. But she was here. He knew it. He was close.

  The military policemen followed him. Tarl wore a uniform with a rank they respected and feared, so they followed him. He was confident and moved with easy assurance. These people were not fools, he reminded himself, and one wrong move would kill him. Slowly, probably. Painfully. He was running a risk, doing this, but every second spent on this world was a risk for him. This place was dangerous. They had eyes everywhere.

  He marched through the reception hall, filled with milling dignitaries and their wives, mistresses, or companions. In the ballroom, an orchestra was playing, swelling music drawing couples onto the dance floor. Tarl did not glance left or right, but kept his eyes fixed on the doors to the lift, flanked with guards in gleaming cuirasses and helmets. The partygoers stepped quickly aside as he crossed the hall. He frowned at them, and they parted like earth under a plow.

  They approached the lift to the private apartments, the residence. This place was the secret heart of the Kaiserreich. The Eagle’s Nest in Bavaria. It was where the elites lived, played, and ruled their empire. Kaiser Wilhelm Bavarius was young, so his emphasis was on play rather than ruling. Others ruled, while the young bachelor Kaiser skied, shot, and screwed his way across Europa and beyond. He was here now, and the woman with him, Tarl's quarry, would answer Tarl’s questions. There was no time for subtlety. The Center demanded results, and he had been in this place too long already.

  Tarl had lucked into this chance to come here, to the Eagle’s Nest, high in the southern mountains of Germania. His cover was as an officer, mid-level political Kommissar in the flying corps. Men feared the Kommissar’s office. They were the secret police. His unit was being honored on the anniversary of a victory a generation ago, which they had played some key role in. Something about how the Kaiser’s ancestor had flown a fighter plane against the Britons. Tarl had gleaned the gist of the situation: they would come, the Kaiser would give a speech, and they would leave. But it was enough, they would be close to the men who held the answers he sought.

  At the lift, more security halted them. Tarl brushed them aside. The death’s head insignia on his lapels did that. Men saw only a hard-faced, mean-eyed young Kommissar. The flying corps insignia was in his pocket, so they saw the black dress uniform and the men behind him as an entourage. Tarl stepped up and saluted casually. He motioned the guard who stepped forward towards him.

  “There is a situation in the residence we need to address,” he said, voice low. “It is urgent and important. There is treachery afoot.” He locked eyes with the man, a burly sergeant bristling with weapons. “Secure this floor and let no one exit after we go up. I will have questions for everyone here when I return.” He let that sink in, then raised his voice so the word would spread. “Someone made a mistake, and I will need help to determine the extent of the issue. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded, glancing at the other men behind him. Tarl saw the sergeant he had collected tilt his head, indicating the grinning silver skull on Tarl’s lapel. The sergeant licked his lips and nodded, stepping aside. No one wanted to upset a Kommissar. This might just work, Tarl thought to himself.

  “You two, with me.” He indicated two of the guards, big men with the braids of an elite unit. “The Kaiser’s men will know you?” One of them glanced at his sergeant.

  “Ja,” he said. “These are picked men. He will know them.” He reached for his communicator, a silver waffle on a thick, braided cord fastened to his shoulder lapel. Tarl placed two fingers on his wrist to stop him.

  “No warning,” he said. “I do not want to provoke anything. We will go in quickly and quietly before this gets any worse.” He leaned in. “The man, with the woman in silver.” The man’s eyes went wide. “No one, no matter what they say or who they are, comes up behind us, do you understand? My office will take responsibility.”

  He stepped into the lift, and, as it rose, he looked out through the wire-reinforced glass. Several men in uniforms approached the guards he had left behind. Their uniforms glittered with sashes, braid, and bright medals. One of them was fat, with a round red face above a tight stock. He was gesturing at the lift and locked eyes with Tarl as the lift climbed. Tarl stared back, face impassive.

  He had minutes, then, Tarl decided. He sucked at his teeth and calmed himself. Could he climb down this mountain from the outside, he wondered. Windows might open. He could break one, perhaps. He shoved the thought away as the lift rose smoothly and swiftly up into the shaft towards the apartments.

  His target had gone up this same lift, with the woman and the Kaiser. So he had followed. He had seen them enter the party from the balcony overlooking the entrance. Overkommander Hektor Schmidt, chief of Military Science for the Wehrmacht. A portly, stooped man, gray and bland. His uniform was blue, a row of ribbons and a red sash bearing a black cross. He blinked about himself and smiled as the Kaiser stood and offered the lady his arm.

  Tarl had positioned himself there, against the balcony railing, and waited. He knew he must see but not be noticed. He could be seen but he mustn’t be noticed seeing. Notice would probably end up killing him here. His uniform was real but his cover was thin as tissue. It would evaporate at the slightest inspection. His German was not even that good.

  The lift had arrived, and she stepped out first into the Eagle’s Nest. He had glanced her way as she exited, her hands out to the Kaiser himself. He caught only a few moments before he looked away. Everything about her was silver. The dress, a pale steel braid. Her shawl was spun of the stuff and settled over her shoulders like it was wet, lined with silver satin. Her shoes, slippers really, delicate kitten heels and ankle straps glittered with silver gems. At her wrist was a bracelet, silver, a heavy, clunky thing of two interlocked, faceted ovals of silver. Her nails were long and painted white.

  She was speaking with the Kaiser, of course, as he led them away from the reception stand. He met with everyone. It was his job, at events like this, to meet everyone who came up the lift. Tarl had met him, pressed into the middle of the group of mid-level officers he had arrived with. He had nodded and shook his hand. A firm grip, Tarl had noted, clear eyes. A handsome man, the Kaiser. Blond, square jaw, blue eyes. German.

  Tarl was balding, and the Kaiser had noticed it. A brief glance, to be sure, but Tarl, trained in spotting such tells, had seen it. His nostrils flared. He knew how he looked, and he did not like being reminded of it. Bald at twenty? So he shaved his head, and the brow
n stubble came back in patches. It was maddening, but there was little he could do about it, short of wear a wig, which was ludicrous.

  So here, he had decided, among these people, to cultivate a ruthlessness. To try it on. He would not blend into the background. He would act. He would not lurk, or sneak, or skulk. He would act.

  The Kaiser had taken the woman by the arm, and, with Schmidt in his wake, led them to the private lift. They were chatting, and Tarl saw the woman laugh at some joke the Kaiser made. He knew he must follow. Schmidt would know what he needed to know. Could answer. So he had plucked the flying corps wings from his chest and dropped them into his pocket, set his peaked cap on his head, and talked his way here. He felt his hands shake.

  “Follow me,” he ordered the guards. They will shoot me if I make a mistake here, he thought. “There may be resistance, but we will overcome it. Be ready.” He nodded. Was that how one ordered such men? He had no idea, and could feel them glance at each other behind him. He faced the lift doors, keeping his face set firm.

  The lift slowed, then stopped, and the doors opened onto a wide parlor area. Tarl stepped out as a steward glanced up. Guards to either side of the lift door stood stamped their heels as they came rigidly to attention. Every face in the party of twenty or thirty dignitaries faced him. Tarl motioned the steward to him, leaning close. He could hear voices chattering on his guard’s radio communicator, frantic voices.

  “The Kaiser,” he said, “where is he?” He watched the man's eyes closely, which widened but not before they slid slightly to his left. The man motioned to his left.

  “His private apartments,” the man said, voice gathering confidence. “With Herr Schmidt and their companion.”

  Tarl made a chopping gesture, cutting the man off. “Show me,” he said. “Lead the way.” Tarl motioned to his two companions and stalked away left, scanning the faces of the crowd. There was muttering, which he expected, when an underling in a Kommissar’s uniform crashed a private party, two guards in tow. It would cause a stir, he thought, him being here. They will talk of tonight for the rest of their lives, he thought.

  The steward led him to a door, surrounded by troopers in full battle gear. Not the polished ceremonial cuirasses of the Kaiser’s guard that his escort wore, but full black and gray synthetic harness with helms of enhanced ceramic. The helmets came low over the face, with plates that could fold down from each temple, obscuring the wearer’s face. These men had theirs splayed open.

  Radios crackled, as he approached, and he could just make out a voice in the static that reached him out of their leader’s helmet. The man glanced down at his wrist, briefly, then back up to meet Tarl’s eyes. He smiled and raised his gun.

  Tarl thew himself to the ground as the man’s gun began to pop. He had time for two quick strides, then he was sliding on his ass and right thigh, leaning back to avoid the slugs that whirred by like bees past his face. Then he was under the man, left leg kicking up. Once, twice, to the knee, and then the groin. He felt something crunch in the knee, but the groin kick landed hard on a metal plate, the shock radiating back through Tarl's leg.

  But the man grunted, going down on his ruined knee. Tarl was on him then, grappling frantically for the man’s gun, sweeping his right leg around to bring the man down. The other two guards were still turning, moving in what seemed like slow motion. Tarl had one hand on the barrel of the gun, and the other wrapped over the man’s trigger-hand. He wrenched at it, pulling it towards him, as if he wanted to strip the man of the gun.

  His hand felt the heat of the barrel burning his palm, but he held on, pulling. The guard resisted, pulling back towards him. Tarl dropped his shoulder and flowed into the pull, twisting the gun around and yanking twice on the trigger. The gun barked once, twice, and the other guard spun away, blood spattering from the hole in his chest plate onto the wall.

  The guard swore, and Tarl, having gotten his right foot under him, slammed upward with all his strength, butting his forehead into the man’s chin. It felt like an axe blow against his head, but the man collapsed like a deflating balloon. His grip slackened on the gun, and Tarl pulled it around to bear on the other guard, who had his own gun up, and was shouting something in frantic German.

  Tarl fired, yanking the trigger as soon as the gun bore. It slammed backwards against his finger, a blossom of white pain in his hand, but the final guard’s face dissolved into a mask of blood and he staggered a step, then slid down the wall outside the door. Still two left, he thought. And you brought them with you. Idiot.

  Tarl rolled, pulling the unconscious guard on top of him. He felt the man’s armor thud as a round impacted it. Aimed at him, he knew. He rolled away, and another shell cracked into the tiles near his face. He had the weapon now, fully in his hand, and he fired wildly at where he thought the shooter was. He fired once, twice, three times, and heard a cry at the third. He looked, over the shoulder of the slumped body he was half trapped under, and saw the man writhing, blood already spreading across his belly in a red wash.

  Tarl scrambled to his knees, gun up. People were running, scattering through what looked like exits into a kitchen and what looked like a dining room. Tarl saw the steward being pushed by the other escort into what looked like the kitchen area. He swiveled, scanning the fleeing crowd for threats. None.

  He looked down at the man he had head-butted. The first guard. He had been their leader, presumably in charge. There, at his belt, a laminated card on a lanyard. Tarl snatched it, trying to break it free of the string with a pull. The string wouldn’t break, it was some kind of braided wire. He glanced around, noticing the card reader to the left of the closed residence door.

  The string wouldn’t break, so bring the man. He grabbed the man’s harness and hauled him, sliding across the bloody floor, towards the door. He propped the man up against the wall, and leaned against it, breathing heavily. The room was quiet. No more guards? They would be on him in moments, he knew. He heard shouting, and a crash from the kitchen. What were they doing? It didn’t matter. Only the door. He snatched again at the card and laid it flat against the panel.

  He felt the door unlatch, and reached for the handle. As he pulled it open, the kitchen door smashed open, and a steel table slid through, blocking the entrance. A black-uniformed man crouched behind it, training a gun at him. Tarl fired wildly, wondering how many shells he had left. He hauled the door open and dashed inside. He had just slammed it shut behind him when he felt the sharp shocks of shells spalling off it from the other side. Armored, of course, he thought. This was the residence of the Kaiser, who ruled half the planet.

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he whirled to his right. His face exploded in a white-hot fireball of pain as something cracked into the left side of his face. A fist? A hammer? He staggered, almost blacking out, and felt the gun ripped from his unresponsive fingers. His vision swam, and he had a brief glimpse of a woman in a torn silver gown, before the gun knocked into his temple and he staggered back against the wall, blind with pain.

  “Idiot,” she said, from down a very long tunnel, and swept her leg up. He blinked and gagged. He was stuck against the wall by the neck. He forced his eyes open, and they traveled down a long, brown leg, past the silver gown bunched around her waist, up into steely blue eyes that were looking curiously at him. She held his gun casually by the barrel to her side, standing solidly on one leg while keeping him pinned to the wall by the neck. She stepped back swiftly, releasing him. He gasped and slid down to the floor, hand clutched to his neck.

  He looked up at her through pain-hazed eyes. She seemed very tall, her legs long and brown in the silver sheath dress. He tried to speak. She had blood on her gown. His blood? Hers? He blinked, trying to focus. She tossed the gun aside, and he heard it clatter on the tiles. Behind her the curtains swirled, and a cold wind moaned through the apartment. He got the sense of a balcony of some sort, yawning into the darkness.

  The room was opulent, he saw now, blinking at it. Cream and gold, pale
woods. A large, ornate bed carved with the German double-eagle crest. The white curtains behind her flapped and flew. The night wind outside was bitter cold.

  She knelt down in front of him. She had bare feet, nails trimmed and painted white. Her eyes were a light, pale blue, shocking against her olive skin. She frowned at him. “Who the hell are you? Too late, if you came to save him.” She nodded over her shoulder.

  He leaned back to see what she meant. His head throbbed and his vision swam, but he focused on what was behind her. The Kaiser. He sat in a chair, head lolling sideways at an impossible angle. He looked angry, face frozen in a frown, eyes narrowed. Blood dribbled from his lips onto his chest. He seemed to look directly at Tarl, “Dead?” Tarl rasped.

  She scowled at him, narrowing her eyes. “You didn’t come here to save him, did you?” She laughed. “Well, if you did, you’re too late.”

  Tarl shook his head. He tried to speak and coughed, spitting blood from his torn mouth. Had she broken his jaw? It flared with pain. He waved at the Kaiser feebly. “Why?” he croaked.

  The woman shrugged. Was that defensiveness? He read it in her. “He needed to go,” she said. “Don’t ask me why,” she said, laughing to herself. “I just knew,” she continued, “that he needed to die and that I needed to do it. Took some doing, getting this chance, but I did it.” She grinned at him. “Lots of noise out there. You come to kill him too?”

  He shook his head. “The other one,” he said. It was getting easier to talk. “I need to talk to him. Questions.”

  “Well,” she said, “you’re late for that, too. He objected. I took him for a walk.” She giggled, indicating the open balcony doors. She looked back down at him. “I hope they were important questions, since you’re not getting out of here.”

  He must have blanked for a moment, as he came to with his back to the wall near the door. The woman had stripped down to her underwear, a slim fitting pale corset and tight black briefs. She was shrugging into what looked like a slim backpack. She saw he was awake.