Sergei hissed as the hot water contacted his bruised hide. It was a good pain, one he rarely experienced these days. Unlike sparring with a human opponent, fighting the analogue had felt real, had the edge of real violence without the forgone conclusion of his natural supremacy.
Against a living person, he was bound to win any contest of physical strength, and beyond what he needed to educate his fighters, he did not deploy that strength except in earnest. As a consequence, it was rare for someone to stand and face him as the real Hudson Ford had done. Sergei had to catch his prey running, or take it by surprise. No one was stupid enough to challenge him openly.
He leaned forward, putting his palms on the tiled wall of the shower as he let the water run over his back, feeling it light up the other bruises and scrapes like a flame held to his skin. He usually took short, cold showers at his barracks, always aware of potential for attack, aware of his vulnerability. Here, there was no real danger, so he took his time, let himself feel the luxury.
He understood why Vikram would covet the Walsh, but for Sergei it was just another tool to advance his personal aims. Powerful, technologically advanced, and capable of feats that defied his imagination, but those things only mattered to him where they represented the defeat of his enemies. Though, as he towelled off and moved into the Executive Officer’s quarters, it pleased him to think of Rachel here. He could imagine her happy, imagine her doing extraordinary things with all of the resources, the laboratories and the medical technology. And training to kill him, which pleased him even more, in spite of his reaction to Vikram’s little show. It was the fakery that chaffed him, not the prospect itself.
She had been happy until Vikram had taken the ship. Happy with Delaware Ford, ex-captain. This suite had been his brother’s, though it had been stripped of all personal details, just as Sergei had stripped him from this plane of existence. It was no wonder, on this island of safety and comfort, that Dr. Ford had gone soft. The suite looked like a condominium. It belonged in a high rise, not in a military vessel. In designing this ship, some new-age forward thinking naval engineers had gone against history. Or, perhaps, towards it, if Vikram’s assessment was to be believed. This floating city was America’s military answer to the nuclear apocalypse. “Liveability” was therefore a consideration.
Sergei had been given an archival clearance to the Neurocommand, likely because Vikram wanted to see how he would use it. He had no need whatever for any of the imprints of the billions of web pages and content contained the ship’s cloud. He carried no ghosts with him from Before. He was not tormented by nostalgia for a world that wanted to contain him.
Naked, he sat down at Hudson Ford’s desk, and recalled what Vikram had told him about using the NCOM. He knew what Vikram would expect him to look at first, and decided for once not to do the obvious thing. Summoning the intelligence dossier was as simple as dragging a finger through the air as though he was operating an invisible touch screen, only instead of a screen, he engaged his mind. He visualized the letters, placing them like a mantra at the forefront of his imagination. The effect was startling in its efficiency.
The screen appeared smoothly in mid-air, an attractively laid out profile page with a photograph. It was a candid shot of a young woman with curly black shoulder-length hair, and distinctive freckles all digitally brightened to reveal her facial features. The effect was meant to clearly identify, not flatter, but there was no concealing her exceptional beauty.
The dossier credited information below primarily from MI-5 as part of a military intelligence sharing agreement the British and Americans had ratified a few years before the Fall. That meant nothing contained in this file was more current than 2040, but there was still plenty in it.
He leaned back in the chair, the NCOM window expanding, adjusting the text size. It scrolled slowly, presumably reacting to his eye movements, his absorption of the material.
Byrne, Lucretia Evelyn
Born: Dublin, Ireland – September 10th, 2018 (age 21 as of last update)
Died: Location Unknown, July 2nd 2040 (unconfirmed)
Affiliations: Fás Ard , Morrígan Detachment
Sergei turned his attention to the Morrígan Detachment, which had its own subsection.
The Morrígan Detachment, named for the Celtic raven war goddess, is an elite corps of primarily female fighters specializing in covert assassination using seduction tactics. As with other members of the organization, the Morrígan can be identified by a UV activated tattoo mark inscribed on the cheek — in this case, the triskelion (triple spiral).
Of the covert Fás Ard fighters, the Morrígan are some of the most dangerous. They not only target law enforcement but also British military in country, often by posing as service members themselves. Depending on their operational needs, they may run their targets long term, or eliminate them after a single encounter.
As of this writing, Lucretia Byrne maintains the highest kill count, having successfully lured and murdered an estimated seventeen men of varying political or military standing. Her most notable acts of terror include the torture and mutilation of Dublin police constables. It appears she accomplishes these murders mid-coitus, and leaves bloodied undignified remains as a warning to perceived collaborators.
Intrigued, Sergei opened the attached case file from her last mission and studied the photographs. They were flash-lit and high contrast the way most crime scene photos were, intended to provide information rather than flatter the deceased.
The target in question, a Dublin police lieutenant, had died naked in his own bed, spread eagle and cuffed at wrists and ankles to the bed posts. His flesh was chalk white, most of his blood having drained from the single cut to the femoral artery, soaking his bed covers. The bloody triskelion carved into his chest glistened, suggesting he’d been discovered and photographed fairly quickly after his murder. Sergei enlarged one of the images, amused by the way the young man’s head arched back, his eyes rolling, lips parted for all the world as though he’d just been given the fuck of his foreshortened lifetime.
Sergei missed her, he realized. He hadn’t expected to. He looked again at the picture, tried to place her in the scene. He could more readily imagine the unfortunate policeman’s perspective, his vision of that beautiful face above him, dissolving into darkness. He wondered if he’d ever get the opportunity to ask her if this was the fate she’d had in store for him, and how much torture she’d withstand before clarifying it for him.
He closed down the NCOM window and went to dress himself in his usual black shooting sweater and drab fatigues. He paused at the mirror long enough to drag his fingers through his silver blonde hair, and look into his own pale blue gaze. The scar Rachel had given him had darkened to a dull red, knotted in the line of his muzzle, but graceful across his cheekbone. He could not visualize himself without it, just as he could not remember what it was not to know her body. Both were part of him now.
When he arrived at the suite assigned to Lieutenant Nero, he did not bother knocking, and was unsurprised to find her in bed with Aster Shah, both of them naked and panting. At the sight of him, Shah immediately pulled the sheet over herself, but Nero merely glanced at him, and let her head fall back on the pillow, her tattooed hide shiny from sweat.
“What?”
He looked to Shah. “Get out.”
“Fuck that,” Nero snapped, now sitting up. She grabbed Shah’s wrist before she could move. “You don’t have to listen to him. He’s just —“ she flapped her Roman hand in his direction —“meat in boots.”
Shah yanked herself free. She wasn’t an idiot, and unlike her bedmate, she had too much care for her personal well being to defy the commander. She dressed quickly, and did not look at him as he stood aside for her.
Outraged, Nero sat up, glaring at him in disbelief. “What the fuck, padrone?” She indicated the now closed door. “You know it’s bad luck to chase away the pussy.”
“The pussy has business elsewhere,” he drawled. “I need you undermining Ashram’s men, not eating cunt all day.”
“Let the others undermine,” she said with an affected yawn. “I delegate.”
Sergei took a deep breath, knowing she was high, knowing she’d just enjoy any physical rebuke.
“I’m sending you back to the Cradle after the final briefing,” he said. “I want you to take over command from Nasrin at North Barracks. I’ll rendezvous with you after.”
“No,” she sniffed. “Command is boring.”
He considered her, increasingly tempted by the idea of cracking his knuckles across her face. Instead, he turned his attention to the bedside table where she’d left the length of medical elastic, and a neat little injector gun loaded with cartridges of buffered heroin. She immediately saw the danger, but he was too fast. He seized the drugs, then went to the window and tossed them out into the sea. When he turned around, her eyes were round, crazed, a snarl curling her lip. She launched himself at him, one hundred and fifteen pounds of enraged, biting, thrashing female flesh.
In spite of her considerable strength and fighting ability, naked and unarmed Aurelia Nero was no match for him. He threw her back against the headboard with enough force to wind her, and she had to suck in a lungful of air before she could make another attempt on him. This time he caught her by the throat, holding her down on the bed and depriving her of enough oxygen to effectively end her assault.
“You’re useless to me when you’re fucked up,” he growled, pinning her twisting body. “And you’re only fucked up when you don’t have anything better to do. You should be grateful I’m giving you the chance to serve.”
He caught fuck yourself and yellow haired cunt in the mix of Italian expletives that streamed from her mouth, steadily failing as he increased the force of his grip on her throat. It was entertaining to watch her wear herself out trying to reach his face with her clawed fingers. Finally, struggling for breath, she collapsed backwards, letting her arms fall in a cruciform of sulky submission.
“I will kill you later, stronzo,” she warned, licking her lips.
“In the mean time… ” Sergei reached down, applying the tip of his finger to one of her scrolling snake tattoos, and tracing it up over her sternum. “You have a debt to settle before then.”
She looked up at him. Shrugged, as though accepting this pivot towards a new set of amusements. He enjoyed it as she took him in, recalibrating her perspective, perhaps imagining him without his clothes. Pursing her lips, deciding he might give worthwhile sport.
“You’re taking over from Nasrin because she gives a fuck about attrition, and we don’t,” he told her. “You have two objectives: kill as many Americans as you can, and fuck up the locals so they remember who they pray to.”
“Mmm.” She nodded. “Hostages?”
“Hostages, torture. Do what you do well, Aurelia.”
He rose, watched her brows come together in a frown, visibly annoyed he was violating the terms of his flirtation. At her questioning look, he turned to leave, but not before pausing to grin at her.
“I’d rather fuck a sawed-off shotgun.”