Chapter 18: Double Take, part 1: Beginnings ------------------------------------------- Well, another day, another mission, I guess. Garek's recalled me to his office. Now that the wedding's over, I suppose Phansha will be retaking his post, which means I'm back to near-freelancing. Which is, admittedly, not such a bad thing. It's just that Garek's smile is getting on my nerves. He's not even looking at me right now, trying to intimidate, so unless he feels that the paper needs to be intimidated, I can't figure out what's going through his mind. He's just looking through a bunch of reports on his desk, skimming them over, then tossing them into the trash bin. "Lieutenant. How did you enjoy your temporary reassignment?" he says to me suddenly, not bothering to look up. All he does is pick up this one package on his desk. It's pretty small, all wrapped up in brown paper; I figure a carrier pigeon could lug it here from almost anywhere. "It was an experience, sir. I can see why Commander Phansha has become so irritable and bitter now," I say, nice and diplomatically. Yeah, I know how he got that way: he was dropped on his head as a baby. Garek still isn't looking at me; he's just looking at that package over and over again. "Lieutenant, do you know of South Figaro?" he asks me. Dumbest question I've ever been asked. "Yes, sir." "Good. So you're aware that a city known as South Figaro exists, and that the Empire normally has many Black Hand operatives working in there," he tells me. The first part I knew. I'll admit, though, the second one's news to me. I mean, heavy spy concentration in one of the Returner's biggest strongholds. Former stronghold, at the very least. It's sort of bizarre. "How does this concern me, sir?" "We have been having... problems in South Figaro recently. Lost agents." "Lost?" He suddenly reaches up and offers me that package. I take it; I don't want to annoy him, even though I'm not entirely sure that handling this thing is safe. He's now looking straight at me, and his smile is gone. I make eye contact with him for the first time since my transfer, and he doesn't try and put me down or make me feels inferior. The gaze that can carve through steel and then some is gone. All that's left is this hollow look from him. He's scared. It seems insane, but he is. I look down at the package. There's a bit of writing on it. "Read who it's addressed to, Alltaire. Read hard and long," he tells me. His voice doesn't waver, but I think his confidence has. I look down at the package, and I have to lift it up, into the light, to read the writing. It's thick writing, heavy and dark. Somebody used a lot of ink on this. And the letters - they're huge and blocky. The handwriting looks familiar. I know whoever wrote this. Finally, I dare to read what's actually said on it. Sebastian Alltaire. For Sebastian Dafydd Alltaire. That's what it says. "Aren't you going to open it, Lieutenant? It has your name on it," Garek says, in way that can only be called smug. And yet, that doesn't seem right. "Haven't you already opened it?" "No. This is your job. Now open it." I slide my fingers in between the folds of the paper, trying to get a grip on it. The paper's slick; waxed over, I'm guessing, to protect it from the rain. I still manage to get a hold of a piece of it, and pull it away sharply. It tears with a sickening shrieking sound. Once. I get another grip: there's more to this package; I still can't see what's inside it. I take hold and tear again. More shrieking, and still nothing. I begin to tear faster and faster. This can't be happening. I don't know what's in this mass of brown paper and I don't want to. I just can't deal with this right now... Another layer peels away. The package now feels more like a wet heavyness than a package. Like solid rainwater, or.... another layer. I can see a shadowy form behind this next layer. I'm almost there. I look to Garek, who simply holds himself steady. "Open it." One last time, the paper shrieks like a motherless child, the wax yields, and I can, I can... Oh lord. I'm going to be sick. Right here. The package drops from my hand and hits the floor with a wet floor. My knees his tile seconds later, while my hands cradle my body; I'm shaking. I can't believe this is happening. I can't see Garek, I can't see if he disapproves or not, and I don't care. All I can see is the image of what I saw in the package: A hand. A human hand, severed at the wrist, and painted a rich ebony. My eyes begin to water, my mouth is dry, and this warmth is spreading in the pit of me, trying to rise to the top like a geyser. My hands are trembling as though I'm in the middle of a Narsheian winter. Hot and cold, all over my body. I don't know how I'm feeling right now, exactly. I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. ********************************** "Pull it together, Alltaire." Garek says that. He even sounds a little shaken, but not as much as I am. I look up to him, and he's still not smiling. I've killed before, he's killed before, but this is beyond killing. This is beyond murder. My dry mouth begins to twitch, and I feel the heat rising, but I keep it down, and try to answer. "It... it's a little difficult to stomach, sir." "I know, Alltaire. I know better than you know." What? I stop dead; I don't know what he's talking about, but it can't be good. "Excuse me?" "This is the eighth package like that we've received. All have been addressed to you." "No," I say, shaking my head. This is impossible. What have I ever done to deserve this? "That can't have happened." "Oh, it did, Lieutenant. And each hand came with a name tag. A tag with the name of one of our South Figaro agents on it. The one you just saw arrived yesterday. The rest have been coming ever since the Opera House incident." "But why me? And what are we supposed to do about this?" Garek sighs, and sinks into his chair, deep in thought. More likely preparing to make my life a living hell. More than now, that is. "That last one was our last remaining agent in the city. There's no one else left to cover Figaro. So, I'm sending you there. Bring whatever you think you'll need. Once there, I want you to clear the city. Find out who did this, and kill them. No niceties, Alltaire: no falling stages, no fancy swordplay. I want whoever did this dead. Are we clear?" I can only nod in assent.