Aura Overload

24 – A Friendly Conversation

“Why does he have to wait outside?” Lemon asked, scowling as the fancy lady and her entourage invaded the tiny sitting area at the front of the rental house. A big, wolf-eyed man was glowering in Demon’s face, trying to usher him out. Of course, the fighter, small as he was compared to the bodyguard, bristled, clenching his fists.

The lady—Lemon had forgotten her name, but it was something with a V—spoke smoothly, and her presence and expectation for obedience seemed to work like a magic spell, “Young man, I am here to provide aid, but I’d like to talk to this woman alone. Step outside, please, and don’t be difficult.”

Demon glanced at Lemon, and she nodded, trying not to look as frightened as she was. What could he do? Orin was in town, and the lady had two other bodyguards, though not as menacing as the big man, standing by the exits. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Go with him, Flint. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

The man, his presence like a black hole, turned to regard her. “I shouldn’t—”

“Go on, Flint. You know where the danger lies.”

“We think,” he muttered, opening the door and ushering Demon out. A moment later, Lemon was standing face-to-face with the fancy lady in a much less-cramped space.

“Where’s your little one?”

Lemon folded her arms, her scowl deepening.

“Don’t be difficult, girl. If I’d wanted to harm you, you’d be locked in a cell awaiting a much less gentle questioner.” The woman looked mature and moved a little stiffly, like her smooth features were hiding some real age. When she spoke, her tone reminded Lemon of PKs and magistrates; she was used to compliance.

“He’s in the backyard playing,” Lemon answered, picturing Kit pushing around the tractor that Orin had gotten him. “Also, I’m not a girl.”

The woman ignored the comment, looking at her two remaining bodyguards. “Go out back. Keep an eye on the boy and watch the damn skies.” The man and woman—both faceless behind their mirrored helmet visors—did not hesitate or question the order; in two seconds they were gone, and the fancy lady was gesturing to the couch. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

Lemon hated being made to feel small; she’d done so much to get away from that, to stand on her own, but the woman put her right back into her old self. She nodded sullenly, and, arms folded, walked to the couch and sat, slouching as she looked toward the closed front door.

The woman sat beside her, and Lemon saw a brief flicker of distaste as she sank into the less-than-pristine cushion. “We have a mutual problem, you and I.”

Lemon had assumed, when the elegant black transport pulled up outside and the soldier-like bodyguards poured out, that the IG investigators had finally come, ready to pin whatever happened at the rift on her and the boys. The woman was fancy, for sure, but when she’d introduced herself she’d used her name, not some Imperial title. The statement still threw her off. “We do?”

“That’s right. We’re both missing someone in that rift.”

Lemon licked her lips. Of course, she was curious; they’d only had rumors handed out by a lady Orin met in the middle of the night to go on. Worry had consumed her day, and now…answers? She expected accusations. “Are they? Missing, I mean?”

The woman smiled, revealing pearl-like synthetic teeth that probably cost more than Lemon had earned in her entire life. “That’s what I’m choosing to believe. Freddy’s inexperienced, but he’s a tough boy, and I made sure he had top-of-the-line equipment. I know everything there is to know about the others—Commander Mathews and her crew. The one I really want to know about is that other fellow, though—your man, Hector.”

“He’s not—”

“Spare me that school-girl stuff, Lemon Korhonen. I know all about you. You might not look it, but you’ve been a grown woman for quite a while, haven’t you?”

Lemon felt a ball of ice take shape in the pit of her stomach, stalling her breath as images of her father danced through her mind. “That’s not my name anymore.”

“Oh, I know that, too. You disavowed your father and embarked on a new sort of life, didn’t you?” The woman smiled, clicking her tongue as she gently patted Lemon’s knee. “Let’s not pretend you’re innocent. Can we do that much?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Fine, fine. So Hector’s just…what? Your employer? Friend? Can we say that much?”

Lemon pressed her lips together and nodded.

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” The woman chuckled, and Lemon cursed her stupid, flighty mind for forgetting her name already.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am—”

“Just Gladia is fine, dear. Let’s be friends—for now, at least.”

“What—”

“What do I want with you? I want you to fill in the blanks about Hector. Why did my Freddy say he was the best one on his team? His file’s awfully thin, even if he is from one of the old arcologies back on Earth. How’d he get on this team? My investigator traced it to a friendly nudge from the Governor’s office, but someone had to buy that favor. Is it your other employer? Grando Scrim?”

Lemon’s nervousness had been steadily escalating to genuine fear ever since the fancy lady had mentioned her father. The stress had turned her palms to ice, and she rubbed them on her knees, letting the friction against the coarse fabric of her jumper warm them slightly. She already felt like she was in trouble, and it already seemed like Gladia knew about Grando. Was she just testing her? Waiting to see if she’d lie?

Lemon nodded slowly. “I met Hector through Grando. I don’t know the specifics, but I think they worked together to get Hector into the rift.”

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Gladia nodded. “Good girl. Now, think very hard about my next question before you answer. Understand?”

Lemon felt a spark of anger pushing against the numb dullness clouding her mind. Why did she have to be so condescending? Were all Royals like that? The thought—Royal—extinguished the anger. This lady could end me! She licked her lips again; her mouth felt impossibly dry. Looking into Gladia’s golden eyes, she nodded.

Gladia’s smile seemed genuine. “First, you need to understand that the rift was attacked. It was disrupted in such a way that it closed prematurely and shifted. That means the people we care about—my Freddy and your Hector—are in serious trouble. Here’s my question: do you think the attack could have been aimed at Hector? His thin history makes me wonder if he’s someone else entirely.”

Lemon blinked, frowning at the question. She knew Hector’s ID was fake, but she didn’t know who he’d been. How could I? She opened her mouth to say as much, but Gladia held up a finger, shaking her head. “Think, Lemon.”

Worrying at some nail polish on her thumb, scraping at a chip, Lemon did as commanded, thinking about the question. She knew what she should say—the truth. For all she knew, Gladia had implants in those beautiful eyes that could determine if she were lying.

She didn’t want to, though. She liked Hector, and he’d been good to her. More than that, Lemon had spent too much of her life under the heel of the Empire and its rules and laws. Her father had seen to that. Something deep in her core didn’t want to cooperate.

Gotta be smart, though.

Lemon cleared her throat and glanced at Gladia, then down again, chewing her lower lip. She wanted her to become impatient and—

“That’s enough thinking. Come now, you know what you want to say.”

Lemon nodded, carefully trying to skirt the complete story while still speaking truthfully. “I know there’s a lot more to Hector than he lets on—more than any of us know. I really haven’t known him very long, though. According to Orin—he’s one of—”

“I know who Orin is.”

“Well, he says Hector fights better than anyone he’s ever seen; he—”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Lemon. Come on now.”

Lemon glanced toward the kitchen, licking her lips. “I’m so thirsty.”

“That’s because I make you nervous.” Gladia leaned closer, peering at Lemon, and when she didn’t look into her eyes, she reached out and gently tilted Lemon’s chin up, forcing the matter. Surprisingly, when Lemon relented and peered into the golden irises, there wasn’t any hostility there. “Relax. I don’t think we’ve any reason to be at odds—unless you lie to me.”

Words flowed from her lips, some internal dam breached: “The truth is that I don’t know who Hector is—was. I know he’s kind to me, and that absolutely nothing worries him. I’ve never felt so safe as when he’s around.” To Lemon’s dismay, tears pooled in her eyes as she spoke, and when she blinked, they streamed down her cheeks. “I’m desperate to know he’s okay.”

“Well, dear,” Gladia said, sighing. “He’s a long way from okay, but I think it’s safe to say that he’s an unknown quantity—the people who sabotaged that rift probably didn’t know any more about him than you and I do. I think that’s good news for my Freddy.” Almost hesitantly, Gladia took Lemon’s hand in hers, gently squeezing. “I’m worried, too, but it’s our job to be strong right now.”

Lemon nodded, blinking away her tears, though she shuddered as she inhaled deeply. As she exhaled, she said, “Is there anything—”

A concussive boom sounded outside. Lemon was so startled by the sound that she glanced at the window, wondering if some kind of weather had rolled in—some kind of storm she wasn’t used to as a city girl.

Gladia reacted differently; she stood and faced the door, and her right arm…changed. The flesh broke apart into tiny squares that rotated into a metallic sheen, even as the limb elongated and narrowed. Before her eyes, Gladia’s arm had become some kind of gun.

“Lemon, do you have—”

Gladia’s words were cut short as the door burst inward, shattering, to reveal her bodyguard—the handsome, big, wolf-like one. He was surrounded by a crackling orange barrier. It took Lemon a second to realize the crackling was a result of gunfire—there were men outside shooting at him!

“Out the back, Lady Ventress,” the big man growled, then he spun and his orange shell flowed into his outstretched fist, and half a dozen balls of smoldering fire erupted from it, streaking into the courtyard.

As concussions and smoke rolled through the doorway, strong fingers grabbed Lemon’s shoulder and pulled her up, propelling her toward the hallway. “Let’s go, Lemon. Let Flint do his work.”

Lemon ran down the hallway, her mind finally catching up with what was happening: they were under attack! “Kit!”

“Yes.” Gladia kept her hand on her shoulder, rushing down the hall with her, her gun arm stretched ahead, the gleaming barrel dancing in Lemon’s peripheral vision. Lemon got to the back door, heard the gunfire popping and zinging outside, and her heart hammered as she threw it wide, all sense of caution gone as she imagined Kit caught up in a gunfight.

She burst through the door onto the little paver patio, stumbling and catching herself on the little cement stoop. For some reason, she fixated on the pavers; the gray tiles were overgrown with grass that had long-since conquered the stones that had once bordered the lawn. She saw Kit’s tractor, upside down, tiny mechanical treads whirring against the air, and her heart almost stopped.

Lemon looked to her right, toward the grass, and relief washed over her as she saw Gloria’s other two bodyguards standing there with Kit huddled at their feet, hands over his ears as their rifles thundered at something in the sky. Lemon ran to him, and when she hauled him into her arms, his weight forgotten in the rush of her adrenaline, one of the bodyguards said, “One drone left, ma’am. The primary attack is in the front.”

Kit clutched her neck, squeezing tightly. “Lemon, they kicked my tractor!”

“Transport?” Gladia asked, scanning the sky, gun-arm upraised. Before the bodyguard could respond, crackling golden lightning erupted along the length of her shiny weapon, and a bolt of blazing energy ripped into the sky. Something up there exploded.

“Secondary vehicle inbound. We should move,” the other bodyguard said, gesturing toward the back wall.

Gladia nodded. “On me—help them over.” Then, no longer moving at all like an older woman, she sprinted for the wall and effortlessly sailed over it.

As pops, crackles, and booms sounded from the other side of the house, the female bodyguard took Lemon’s arm and propelled her toward the wall. “Come on.”

Lemon glanced at the house, saw the smoke billowing into the sky from the other side, and said, “Demon…”

“Dead.” The woman didn’t wait for Lemon to wrap her head around the situation. Her fingers were hard and strong, and they didn’t allow compromise; she propelled Lemon to the back wall and said, “Get the kid, Gil, I’ll help her over.”

The other bodyguard grabbed Kit, tugging. Lemon didn’t want to let him go, but the woman shook her arm, forcing her to look at her. “Get a grip, lady, or we’ll leave you here!”

Kit scrabbled at her arm with his little fingers, his face full of panic. “Lemon!”

“R-right. Just a minute, Kit. Let the man help.” Lemon released him; the man pulled him away, and then the woman shoved her again.

“Grab the top and pull!” she barked, and Lemon reached up, felt the rough, sharp edge of the concrete block, and hooked her fingers over it. She did as commanded and pulled, but she might as well not have—the woman put a shoulder under her butt and shoved. Lemon cried out as the rough stone scraped her stomach and thighs, and then she was falling toward the weed-choked alley behind the country house.

Bruised and dirty, she scrabbled to her feet, and the bodyguards descended beside her, one holding Kit, the other scanning the area with her rifle.

“Lemon!” Kit cried again, but when the bodyguard turned and the little boy could see her over the man’s shoulder, he seemed to relax. “What’s happening?”

“Just hang on, Kit—”

“This way!” Gladia called, and Lemon turned to see the Royal, gun-arm crackling with golden light, waving for them to follow her deeper into the alley.

The bodyguard pushed Lemon, and they all started running, chased by the booms and pops of the pitched battle taking place behind them. Lemon’s mind was so full of questions that she couldn’t focus. They jumbled together, crowding for attention, but one of them kept repeating over and over, louder than the others: What kind of trouble am I in now?