The Bodyguard (Part 6)
Part 6.
6.
At 16:00 everyone was assembled by the aircar port. A couple of vehicles waited for them. The first was the de Saint limousine, a sleek, long Mercedes - occupied by Arabella de Saint, the Lady of the House, Cassiopea, and a female ‘guard wearing an ornate curved sword who Castor didn’t recognise. The second was for the ‘guards, a enormous two-tiered coach, designed to act as a temporary home and headquarters for the aristocrat’s entourage on long journeys.
Castor’s neck ached; the in-house tech-doctor had fitted him with a proprietary comms system that allowed the de Saint ‘guards and servants to communicate without risk of eavesdropping. The ‘guards were resting in various parts of the large main deck of the coach. They were nearly past Germany now, the setting sun casting shadows over the shallow hills that made up much of the countryside there. He had sat with Bart most of the time, the only familiar face apart from Rickard, who had spent most of the journey connected to console, planning for the night’s work.
A short, heavily augmented Japanese man named Hiji sat nearby, sitting on his knees in the fashion of his people. Bart had explained that he was the son of a diplomat who got cut off from his homeland during the War. Like many expats and diaspora the distance from his homeland had resulted in his leaning even more heavily into his people’s culture - he sat next to a long katana that, although currently disconnected, could be attached to his right arm by way of a cable.
Another was a woman he had spoken to himself. She was a tech-nurse during the Paris invasions. The ‘bots often attacked hospital trenches and facilities as a matter of course and as the war went on the nurses themselves formed self-defence battalions, often specialising in short-range anti-air and close-range combat – her shotgun indicated both. She was also the designated medic for the group. Down her face ran a scar, the eye it crossed clearly artificial, and her shock of white hair was cut short, a style common to battle-nurses. She was kindly and spoke to Castor with a tone of sympathy - she had, after all, spent much of her time with dying and wounded young men not unlike Castor himself. Her name was Ana.
Across the main deck sat a brown haired woman wearing a visor, now raised, that was covered in countless lenses. She was attending to an enormous takedown rifle. Near by, a technician sat, a thin man utterly covered in prosthetics, multiple arms folded down across his chest, his face obscured by a breathing apparatus and large lenses where his eyes would have been. A few arms of his that were not stowed were fiddling with some kind of wasp-like drone with cameras for eyes. His name was Calvo, Bart said, and he was once a tech-priest.
“He’s best techie I’ve ever seen, but then he would be, wouldn’t he?” The enmity in the Texan’s voice was clear. The technician glanced up at them for a second, then returned to the object of his attention, his many hands clicking away.
The coach shuddered through a bit of turbulence. Feeling weary, Castor climbed up the stairs to the second level and into one of the cubicle bunks. Sleep took him.
He was in a field now, blacked, torn, filled with craters and the stumps of charred trees. A forest, once. The place where men and had been dying for hundreds of years, for different causes. In different times. But it was silent, totally, utterly silent. He took a step. Nothing. Silence.
“Bel.” A woman’s voice, coming to him as if on a wind, she was there – there, in the distance, black skirt and dark red hair flowing gently. He couldn’t make out her face but felt he knew who she was. He didn’t. Did he? This terrifying sense of recognition, scratching at the edges of his mind. He tried to remember someone, anyone, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember anything. Who was he? Who was she? She walked down, disappearing into a large crater. He ran after her, but got no closer, the distance between him and the crater warping, bending, twisting. And as he did sounds began returning, the wind rushing past his ears, his feet squelching into the mud, explosions, gunfire, that infernal screeching whine. Silence again. Suddenly he was at the lip of the enormous crater. She stood there in its centre, naked, up to her waist. The crater was filled with blood and rotting corpses. She turned towards him.
***
The party that Arabella de Saint was attending, like many of its kind, had limits on the number of bodyguards who could actively attend their Masters. In this case, it was three. The use of guards was broadly ceremonial, rarely did attempts get made during these kinds of gatherings. It was usual before or after. Some aristocrats brought their guards as a form of trophy or boast, usually the most attractive, famous, or in some cases, weird. The remainder would be positioned in the rooms around the conference hall or meeting room, or anywhere else deemed appropriate. The conference was to take place in the grand penthouse-ballroom of Riga Central Block B, one of a number of ‘scrapers in the city’s new business district. As they approached the tower, the brunette, whose name Castor now knew as Fiadh, and the technician Calvo, entered the cargo bay.
“We’ll drop those two off first, let them get set up,” Rickard said to Castor. The coach pulled to a stop on the roof of an adjacent tower from Block B. Castor and Rickard helped the pair unload two enormous reinforced cases. The Spaniard in particular fretted over their safe handling, gesticulating with his many arms and agonising in Spanish. Inside one the cases were four high powered rifles mounted on a gimbal, each connected to a console sporting an antenna and in the second, a large lifting drone, and three small wasps. The Spaniard muttered excitedly through his breathing apparatus, and connected to a briefcase console. He suddenly went rigid, then relaxed. The drones activated, the four wasps flying off towards the tower – as they did this, their larger sibling floated over to one of the turret rifles, picked it up with a magnetic clamp and flew off towards one of the other rooftops. Fiadh had taken up position nearby, sat on a cushion, and began assembling her rifle.
“Youse can go, thanks for the help boys.” She spoke with a thick Irish drawl.
“Sssi, ssssi, sssalir.” The techie rasped, swaying gently side to side, his lense-eyes flashing red.
As they made their final approach to the tower, Rickard spoke again, “Castor, you’re upfront on this one, with the boss, guess she wants to see how you do.”
“Why not you?” asked Castor.
“Have you seen the size of him?” The Japanese man spoke suddenly, his accent surprisingly clean, with an English inflection. Ana giggled. Rickard grinned at Castor.
“Our little samurai has it right, I’d scare them all off. Plus, it’s as I told you,” He tapped his head, “I’m better off in the middle. Bart, Ana and Hiji will be the sweepers, I’ll be in reserve, Calvo and Fiadh on lookout.”
“Sssssi, ssssi, sssigue adelantttte.” The Spaniard’s voice came through - Castor’s comms unit was clearly working.
The old grind. The coach landed smoothly alongside the limousine on their designated aircar platform. He joined the main party just as Felix was opening the side door of the limousine, his boyish attitude exchanged for a serious chauffer-like routine. Arabella, Cassiopea and the unfamiliar ‘guard exited.
“Mr. Castor, this is my retainer, Irene.” The girl bowed slightly. Her skin was a dark olive, her eyes and hair a deep, straight black, tied behind her with a red ribbon. She wore a kilij with an ornate curved handle. Her uniform was full dark red, no white accents like those of the other guards. Arabella herself was in full battle gear, a long, low cut navy blue evening dress, an elaborate silver necklace that was studded with gemstones contrasted beautifully with her gold neck and shoulders - her silver arms and hands were the opposite, covered in gold bangles and signet rings.
“Come.”
Dull. So fucking dull. The idle chatter of the rich. New estates, aircars, ‘guards, jewellery, prosthetics. Some of the attendants actually produced things, industrialists and technologists, but the majority were just painfully fucking rich. Castor and the other two’s role was quite simple, look smart, and speak only when spoken to. Naturally, Castor and Irene were constantly measuring, sizing up guards, observing the mannerisms of waiters. Occasionally some aristo or ‘guard would make a pass at Cassiopea, but a combination of Castor’s gaze and her silent smile warded them off. One aristo tried it on Irene – she gave him a look so fierce that no one dared speak to her for the rest of the night.
“Castor old boy!”
Oh fuck. James Tilray strode up to them, flanked by two obscenely dressed female ‘guards - trophies, no doubt. A third, a tall thin blonde man with perma-lenses stood behind him and nodded at Castor. Rafe was still with Tilray, thought Castor as he nodded back, poor bastard.
“Hullo, Bella.” He could see Irene tense up at this casual naming of her Lady. He thought he saw her slowly reaching for the hilt of her sword.
“Hello James, enjoying ourselves?” She said, smiling blankly at his two companions. Arabella answered him as she did everyone else, with the same blank politeness.
“How’s business?”
“Oh, I don’t get involved too much anymore, much too busy these days,” he grabbed one of his companions by the waist and let out an ear-splitting guffaw. The girls giggled. Even with his perma-lenses on, Castor could tell Rafe was rolling his eyes. That moron was only good for making work, not doing it, thought Castor.
“Well, what a coincidence, you picking up my boy, I was so sorry to let him go.” Castor had, of course, left of his own volition. 5 fucking years of that shit. He couldn’t understand how he managed, or how Rafe was still going. It was the money, of course, he knew, but still, this is what he’s like when he’s behaving. One of his companions winked suggestively at Castor and kissed the air. Cassiopea’s serenity vanished for a moment, replaced by a sharp glare, before she restrained herself and returned to her usual attitude.
“Yes well, he’s just started, it’s his first job for me.”
“Oh I remember our first time…” Tilray looked off into the distance dreamily. Yeah you nearly died of a fucking ‘amph overdose. “…well, must be off, people to meet, you know - chao bella.” A vein was visible on Irene’s neck. Tilray sauntered off hawing as he went. Rafe nodded at Castor again, a knowing smile on his lips, you lucky bastard.
“What an insufferable cunt,” said Arabella, the words sounding even harsher when said in the same calm manner that she had been using with the other guests. Castor had to consciously supress a laugh; you have no idea, lady.
The party began winding down, people began leaving, aircars taking off. Many would go to a chosen club in the city, there all the pretences of formality would be shed – Castor had seen a couple that were essentially orgies - with Tilray of course. The Lady of the House had decided against this, much to Castor’s relief, and once they had returned to the aircars she declared that they would be spending the night in the countryside. They returned to their respective aircars, picked up the two lookouts, and sailed off into the night.
***
They landed in clearing in a forest about an hour from Riga. It was a clear night, a nearly full waxing moon lit up the trees enough to cast shadows that danced in the late night breeze. A party of servants had already arrived in another coach and had set up a makeshift camp surrounding it. Castor and Calvo walked a perimeter, the Spaniard placing trip alarms as they went.
“Vagabundossss.”
“Pardon?” replied Castor.
The former tech-priest responded with a heavily Spanish inflected rasp, “ssstrrayees, macheens nott fineeshed.”
Castor understood. Many of the remainders of the AI’s armies of bipedal drones still haunted the forests of Europe aimlessly - that is until they spotted the heat signatures of biologics.
“Why did you turn back?” Castor paused, “I mean away from the priesthood.”
“Traidorrsss. Tink Godttt is macheennn. Calvo forcceee to be sacerdotehhh. Mamahhh always showsss sonidohhh righttt way,” he looked at Castor, his lense-eyes narrowing and opening slightly, making the sign of the cross in the Catholic fashion with his main hand. “Mannn nott makerrr of Godhtttt, Godhtttt maker of man.” He paused for a moment, “Calvo keeel Mamahh, iniciaciónnnn for be preeest, Calvohh no forgeeeve. Maybee Hhhesuusss forgeeeve.”
The breeze picked up. The sound of crickets chirping intermixed with the click-clack of the techie’s many mechanical spider-like feet against the forest floor. The perimeter was wide, enough to give ample warning in case of a breach. They finished their work and returned to the campsite, finding that the servants had set up a firepit in the centre of the clearing and were busily preparing supper. An enormous side of beef rotated over the open flame, fat dripping and spattering into the fire. Cassiopea and Ana giggled at Castor’s visible excitement. Rickard came out of the ‘guard’s coach with a case of beer and passed them around cheerfully. The mistress of the house sat on an ornate red velvet sedan chair that the servants had produced from their coach. Irene sat next to her, kneeling on a pillow. She held a bottle of red wine, pouring for her mistress and herself. After they’d eaten and drank their fill one of the servants brought out of their coach a couple of instrument cases, giving one to Fiadh and handed the other to the Spaniard, who noticed Castor’s surprise.
“Calvo doo badd tinggs, but stiel can makehhh gooodd.” He said as he tuned the guitar. Castor though he could detect a sad smile under all the augmentation. Fiadh produces a fiddle from her case, and together they played. The music they played was beautiful -slow and almost sad, a testament to their countries tortured pasts, but carried the wonder and mystery that much provincial folk music contained. Ana sang, her voice a soft operatic soprano. The sound drifted across and filled the clearing. Irene, again to Castor’s surprise, took off her kilij and began to dance, arms extended. She paced in circles, spinning and periodically performing light acrobatics. Arabella watched her with a smile that Castor had not seen her make before, a real smile, a look of genuine affection, possibly even love. Bart danced with a pretty servant girl that Castor had seen walking the hallways of the main house the day before as Rickard watched with a grin, puffing on an enormous pipe and tapping his gargantuan foot to the music. Hiji performed tricks his sword for the servants, cutting through thrown stones with its monomolecular edge, occasionally letting himself get hit and feigning exaggerated pain, much to the onlookers entertainment.
“Not so bad, right?” Cassi whispered to Castor. Castor smiled and watched the dancers. The past few days had been so strange, so different from the chaos of the city, so distant from the horrors of war. Another world. “Come.” She whispered with that mischievous smile, in a mocking imitation of her mistress’ stern demeanour.
They walked into the forest, following and ancient stone path planted into the ground many hundreds of years ago. The ruins of an temple of some kind lay around, huge cylindrical stones weathered with age. The music being played in the distance wafted with the breeze and fireflies danced between the branches of low trees.
“You did well today, Bel. I think the mistress likes you.”
“She’s not as harsh as I thought she’d be, not like some of the other aristos, much more…”
“Human?”
Castor laughed, but she was right, there was a humanity in her current behaviour that was sorely lacking in the European nobility.
Her skirt was swaying gently in the wind, boots poking out of the split in the front of her dress as she walked. They got to another small clearing and sat on a large mossy rock. The moonlight shimmered through the trees and onto her pale skin. She was beautiful.
They sat there for a while, leaning against the rock watching the stars through a gap in the trees. Cassi traced constellations, her silver hand glinting softly in the moonlight.
“Ursa major.” said Castor.
“Rickard, obviously.” Said Cassi. Castor laughed softly.
“And Scorpio? He replied.
“Calvo, all those arms.” She clicked the tip of her fingers together in imitation of the Spaniard’s prostheses. “What about The Northern Crown?”
“Arabella.”
Cassi giggled, “yeah I should have got that one.”
“Cygnus?” she said.
Castor thought for a second before answering.
“Irene, beautiful but an absolute bitch if you get too close.”
“You were supposed to say me!” she huffed, turning to him. Castor laughed, a deep belly laugh. They sat in silence for a moment, before Castor spoke.
“Everything feels so strange… it’s so different from…” Castor trailed off, unable to speak. She had pulled him in. They kissed, gently – at first. The gentility turned to fervour and before either of them knew it she was on top of him and they were pulling each other’s uniforms off. They made love, there, on the mossy forest floor, the sound of sombre but beautiful music floating in the warm summer air, crickets chirping and fireflies jousting. Another world.
[Thanks for reading. Art made by myself on Midjourney. Having fun wrestling with the AI (irony alert) and trying to illustrate some of these scenes.]