Epilogue 1
A storm was coming.
A hot wind washed in from the ocean, carrying with it a scent of ozone and brine. The water was restless tonight. Huge, rolling breakers foamed across the rocky shore, one after the other. In the distance lightning flickered, angry electrostatic discharges arcing down from a troubled sky.
Victor Slayn stood on his terrace, sipping a glass of red wine.
It was an old, old vintage, pressed from grapes that traced their lineage all the way back to Old Terra.
A single bottle cost a small fortune, but Slayn had a thousand more of equal quality in the cellar beneath the villa. Enough to last him several cycles.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to wait quite that long.
It had been almost nine months since that cock-up with the Mercs. Nine months of solitude. He had given up all hope of Inga coming to join him. She was the only other person who knew about this place. Her absence meant she must be dead.
A shame. It would have been nice to have some company here on Lethe. He was growing tired of relying on his hand.
His finger had healed, but it still ached sometimes.
It was aching now.
Slayn knocked back the last of his wine, then he removed a platinum cigarette case from the pocket of his robe and clicked it open. Inside were a dozen slim black clove cigarettes. He fished one out, lit it, and took a drag. The eugenol from the cloves left his throat feeling mildly anesthetized.
Out at sea, the storm was coming closer. The occasional grumble of thunder could be heard, borne upon the rising wind.
Slayn turned away from the storm and looked landward, surveying the simple yet elegant villa and the stony outcropping upon which it had been built.
Slayn had bought the place years before.
Not just the property, but the entire planet.
The previous owner had been the heir to a once-powerful family that had fallen into disrepute.
He had parted with it for a song. Slayn had killed the man shortly afterward, not to recover his money, but to cover his tracks.
That was the last time he had killed somebody with his own hands.
There were no guards here on Lethe. No servants. Nobody to betray him. This was his last redoubt, a fastness where he could hide from any catastrophe. The only other person who knew about the planet was Inga, and she was gone now.
Too bad.
Slayn finished his cigarette, then pitched the remains over the railing and headed for the house. Already, the sky was spitting rain. He reached the big sliding glass door and opened it, then paused on the threshold.
A strange tingle at the base of his neck.
A sense of being watched.
His pulse quickened. He whirled around. Nobody was there. Behind him, the terrace was empty. And beyond that, nothing but the storm and the incessantly crashing waves. Lightning forked across the sky.
Paranoid, Slayn told himself. Nothing more.
He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, cutting off the voice of the thunder. Rain spattered the transparent armaglass. The material was strong enough to withstand a direct hit from an artillery cannon. Slayn engaged the lock.
The interior of the villa was open and sprawling, with soaring cathedral ceilings and custom light fixtures that bathed the space in a soft, warm glow.
Around every side of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows offered stunning views of the desolate landscape outside.
Those windows could be set to tint-mode, blocking the view of anyone outside, but Slayn didn’t bother with that.
There was nobody out there to see him. Nobody at all.
He carried his empty wine glass to the wet bar, where the rest of the decanter was waiting.
Again, that tingle at the nape of his neck.
Perhaps he should darken the windows after all, if only for peace of mind.
But there was no reason. Even if someone had managed to find this place—which they hadn’t; that would be impossible—but even if they had, Slayn had sensors distributed all throughout the surrounding area. Nobody would be able to approach the villa. Not even a Merc.
Slayn lifted the decanter and refilled his glass. This particular vintage required a decanter. Without aeration, the wine had a muted, closed quality. Given a chance to breathe, it was able to properly express itself.
Just like me, Slayn thought.
He did not fear being alone the way some men did, but this solitude was stifling. He needed to express himself again, the only way he knew how.
Another nine months should be sufficient. That would be a cycle and a half. The Guild would likely never stop hunting him, but their resolve would surely weaken with time. Another nine months. Yes. Then he would begin rebuilding his empire.
He lifted the glass to his face, taking a moment to savor the complex aroma. Then he sipped slowly, allowing the rich, red fluid to coat his tongue.
Exquisi—
All at once, the lights in the villa went out. Slayn’s heart leapt into his throat. Without meaning to, he spit out the mouthful of wine, and it spattered down the front of his robe.
In a flash, he was behind the bar. There, in a drawer that would only open for his fingers, nestled in a bed of soft velvet, lay a small, sleek-looking submachine gun. The compact carbine was designed to fire pistol-caliber ammunition at a high rate. It was his preferred choice for close combat.
Slayn lifted the gun from the drawer. He ejected the magazine, checked it, then slammed it home again. His heart was racing.
He told himself to calm down. It was just the storm. The backup generators would kick on any second now.
They didn’t.
Slayn stood behind the bar, listening. All he could hear was the sound of the rain peppering the roof and the steady thumping of his own heart, loud as a parade drum in his ears. He was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He’d been this afraid once before, almost nine months ago.
Slayn hesitated for a moment. The bar offered a defensive position, but he was loath to stand still. Escape seemed like the better option. There was an armored flyer in the garage at the rear of the villa. If he ran, he could reach it in thirty seconds. Maybe less.
No. It was better not to panic. He would take his time.
Cautiously, Slayn rounded the end of the bar. The gun was trembling in his hand. His heart was in his throat. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets.
He scanned his eyes over the open living area one last time, then he turned and headed for the door at the back of the room. The one that led toward the garage. He was halfway there when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
A woman’s voice.
“Slayn.”
A flash of lightning painted her silhouette onto the wall ahead of him, and his blood went cold. It was her. It was Fairchild. She had come for him.
He spun, gun raised, just as a second flash of lightning filled the room with light.
For a heartbeat he saw her standing ten paces away with a katana in her hand.
She was dressed in a form-fitting black bodyglove that hugged all of her curves.
But those curves were different from the last time they’d met.
Her breasts were larger than before, her thighs a little thicker.
And most noticeably of all, her once flat belly was now huge and round with pregnancy.
She had kept it. She had kept the child.
Slayn hesitated. Here was the thing he had so desperately wanted. The thing he had lost everything attempting to create. A weapon beyond all comprehension. A Merc child.
He hesitated, but only for a moment.
With a scream of rage, Slayn pulled the trigger of the SMG and unloaded into Fairchild’s stomach. Outside, another burst of lightning split the night.