Chapter 01 Audiobook

The soft click of the door latch brought Askatla the silence she had craved since the start of a disastrous dinner to which she greatly regretted having accepted her father’s invitation, a dinner at which her father had never appeared. Releasing a small sigh, she resignedly tapped across the library, around the immense mahogany desk to the windows which, after drawing the double curtains, she unlocked and lightly pulled open for some much needed fresh air. 

Tolerating the company of Giovanni Massimo de’ Medici, the surprise guest her father had surreptitiously invited to dine with her in his stead, was exhausting on the best of days. The fact that she was clearly expected to play the gracious host while her father was caught up in some “unexpected affair” in another city only made it that much worse. It felt like a bad joke in which she was the punch line. Giovanni played his part as the guest in a manner that would have been comical were it not so irritating; his usual self-centred prattling throughout the evening’s heure des hors-d’œuvre and supper had been punctuated by annoyingly amorous allusions. While not wholly out of character, he seemed oddly expectant that she would answer him in kind. She soon found herself eager to cool and clear her head at the first opportunity; only the promise that she would return in time for digestifs and dessert placating him enough to prevent his following her like a talking tail. 

A cool breeze gently caressed her cheeks and brought her the pleasant petrichor still lingering in the dusky mists, evoking fond childhood memories–far fewer of which involved Giovanni than he had deluded himself and, perhaps her father, into believing. As Askatla brushed away the loose ebony strands playfully dancing across her vision, she noticed an onyx dragonfly, unusual for autumn in Strasbourg, perching peculiarly on the bannister of one of Salle Mozart’s windows across the street and staring at her via those big bulbous eyes. It was large enough to be an Anax Imperator but lacked any of the vibrant colours for which they were famous. She knitted her brows quizzically at the dragonfly before it swiftly flew off, the unease that had haunted her all evening like an incorporeal presence perpetually beyond her periphery intensifying almost in proportion with her hastened heartbeats. 

Turning back to the room in the hope of leaving the foreboding clouds outside, Askatla awakened the shining steel Newton’s cradle in the centre of the reading desk and scanned the shelves to her left which held musical scores. As if by fate, her eyes settled on a clothbound Bärenreiter edition of Don Giovanni. She slid it off the shelf, chuckling at the irony, and settled herself into the corner of one of the antique black leather chesterfields on the far side of the room. Reading through the first act, she found herself wishing her father had more the temperament of Donna Anna’s and were inclined to chase away the eponymous would-be seducer at bladepoint rather than make her dine with him. While she knew her father could more than hold his own against an opponent like Giovanni, despite his advanced age, the scene’s ominous end only increased her dread of the unavoidable doom of returning to such a dinner. At least this unexpected guest only brought her the risk of mental anguish through inane conversation, and she was not in any real danger. 

* * *

Prometheus ducked deeper into the nook between two dormers just as his target turned around, keeping his head down and watching through the eyes of his Zygopter, which sat perched on the opposite side of Rue du Miroir, as the man suspiciously swept the surrounding area with his gun. Toggling the camera’s size and opacity on his HUD and zooming in, he could see jaw movement under the man’s balaclava which indicated that he was talking to his compatriots at ground level. He worried for a moment that he had been spotted, but the man presently put up his pistol and returned to his business. Given all the preparation his opponents had clearly put into this operation, he was surprised that they had not invested in better backup protocols or at least masks with rigid facial shielding like his own. 

From the moment he spotted the crew, they had been a collection of contradictions. The message from Pandora putting him on their trail had implied that his targets would be well-organised and have serious financial backing and technology at their disposal. Tracking the mobile IP address she provided had led him to an unmarked white service van, which had been stripped of its licence plates and brand badges, parked on Rue du Vieux Marché aux Grains just north of where it intersected Rue du Vieux Siegle that was haemorrhaging enough RF radiation to fry a pigeon. The jeweller they parked in front of almost made this seem like an elaborate prank coordinated with his informant. There they sat until twilight had nearly waned to dusk, at which time they crawled down Rue de la Lanterne, stopping at the gate leading to a parking courtyard just past the point where the street transitioned into Rue du Miroir long enough for one of their compatriots to disembark, then continued on their way. The man was dressed in black tactical gear that looked like it had been pulled from the shelves of the nearest milspec surplus store no more than twenty four hours prior. Prometheus suspected if he looked close enough he would be able to spot a price tag on him somewhere. Abandoning his original plan to follow the van with his Zygopter, he decided to trail the disembarked passenger when he saw the man vault the shoulder-high gate. From above, he watched the man duck into the corner, pull on a set of night vision goggles, and draw an M&P EM-9 from one of his hip holsters before crouch-walking to the corner of the courtyard. Prometheus dubbed the man Sam in his mind; Sam the Sneak seemed suitable.

Setting his insectoid drone to maintain visual contact with the target from a safe distance, Prometheus threw off the cheap oil paper tarp he had lay under throughout his rainy stakeout, scrambled over the rooves, and jumped across Rue de la Lanterne. While tracking Sam’s progress shooting out security cameras, he found a spot to cross Rue Gutenberg where the building on the south side of the street was shorter by a sufficient degree that he could land on the roof rather than risk being seen climbing back up by someone at ground level. The last thing he needed was for some random passerby to film him and have their video go viral on social media, the bane of all who valued privacy and anonymity. Since the slant of the roof meant that he could not roll out of his landing in the traditional somersault, he let momentum drive his torso forward and caught himself in a wide pushup position. This softened the impact with all four limbs before his chest smacked flat against the photovoltaic tiled surface, the Kinetigel lining of his suit dissipating what energy remained. It was not the most pleasant sensation, and most certainly would have been audible to the occupants of the apartment below. The thin rubber soles of his Aramid jikatabi provided little cushion, but their flexibility and gecko-like texture gave him greater control and grip on uneven surfaces, meaning he did not slide at all despite the slant and was able to get moving again quickly. Vectoring off the corner walls, he climbed onto the roof of the ancient Hôtel de la Tribu des Marchands and made his way cautiously toward Rue du Miroir.

Seeing Sam begin climbing a drainpipe on the rear of L’Hôtel Gutenberg confirmed Prometheus’ suspicions about his target’s target. An attempted heist on the property of Julius Kristensen, Grand Marquis de la Sécurité et du Renseignement,¹ was bold bordering on reckless but further supported Pandora’s supposition that they were potentially targeting bloc intelligence. What they hoped to gain from attacking one of his personal properties was less clear as Grand Marquis Kristensen was not one of those politicians known to mix private and public businesses. 

Settling into a gap between dormers from which he could see the length of Rue du Miroir, he retook manual control of his Zygopter and brought it back around the side of the building. Knowing that Sam could not enter from the side facing the broad Rue des Serruriers, he perched it on the bannister of one of Salle Mozart’s windows facing Rue du Miroir and began scanning the windows of the hôtel for potential targets or entry points. He almost lost his footing when one of the fourth floor windows opened before his eyes to reveal a beautiful woman in a dress of merlot satin, which highlighted the pallor of her skin in the moonlight that chose this of all moments to break through the clouds. His heart skipped as she seemed to lock eyes with him through the camera of his drone. Shaking himself mentally, he took off once more and flew out of sight before looping around and settling into a juncture of the rain gutter where the electronic insect would be less conspicuous.

A shadow crested the roof of L’Hôtel Gutenberg and eased itself down the steep photovoltaic tiled roof between the dormers of the fifth floor to stand on the rain gutter. It had certainly taken him long enough. While clearly intent on stealth, the man was clumsy on the slick surfaces as the thick soles of his heavy combat boots lacked the flexibility needed to manoeuvre silently under such conditions. His lack of caution clashed with his intentions as he continued about his business without scanning his surroundings first, perhaps assuming no one else would be mad enough to crawl around the rooftops after dark. With a hand on the left dormer, the man fumbled with his utility belt and plugged one end of a cord into his goggles before lowering the other end to peer in through the window below him to his right, the one next door to that which the beauty had just opened. Gently swinging the camera over to the next window, the man froze, then rapidly respooled his camera.

Prometheus’ blood froze too as he realised what was happening. This was not an attempt on the Grand Marquis himself; they were after the woman in that room, his second daughter–Askatla Kristensen. With a momentary lapse in caution, he turned to climb the roof but stopped himself when Sam turned his way and drew. He let himself relax a bit once the sneak returned to his conversation. Not wanting to spook the sneak, Prometheus sat tight in his nook planning his own next moves while watching Sam talk with his colleagues. While the sneak’s back was turned, he returned his Zygopter to the windowsill that had provided him a clear view of the room wherein Kristensen’s daughter sat reading a book, blissfully unaware of her imminent peril. 

Quickly scanning the room, he could tell it was a sort of library or study as the walls were covered by antique wooden bookshelves polished in a rich ombre. A few metres from the window sat an enormous desk of similar hue to the bookshelves on which a Newton’s Cradle lay clicking away. Beyond the desk were a pair of tufted black leather sofas bracketing a low coffee table, all set upon a luxurious Persian rug patterned in gold and burgundy. Askatla was seated comfortably in the crook of the left sofa, facing half away from the window such that all he could see of her face was the elegant curve of her jaw and neck.

A pit grew in his stomach as the man clipped a rappelling rope to the crest of the roof and hooked it to his belt. Clearly extraction of this sort had not been the original plan, else Sam would have been fitted with a proper harness. Belt harnesses could do nasty things to a person’s kidneys if overloaded. The Magnesteel Mesh armoured mid-layer of Prometheus’s own suit had loops near the waist in both front and rear which wove directly into the suit’s body structure, effectively spreading the strain out over his entire torso while rappelling. The added kinetic strain reduced the suit’s magnetic damping function, meaning he would take harder hits if someone shot him, but he could safely carry up to triple his body weight without risking organ damage. 

As Sam stood with his back to the street and drew a Desert Owl .50, Prometheus wondered what kind of idiot carried mismatched calibres on an op, or more than one gun for that matter, but decided it was best not to delve too deep into the psychology of such a person. He also now knew there was no longer an option of sticking to a purely observational role. Rescue was not his usual modus operandi, but he would never be able to live with himself if something happened to the woman in that room and he had not even made an attempt to prevent it. When one has the means and opportunity to thwart wrongdoing, inaction is complicity. The view from his Zygopter shrunk to a small square of his left eye as he climbed the roof, but it was too late; Sam was already dropping over the edge. Prometheus took a mote of satisfaction at the obvious pain it caused the intruder when the belt cinched up under his bullet-proof vest and squeezed at his squishy bits. 

Still, Sam swung in the window and took aim at the woman on the sofa. The way she futilely held up her book like a shield stabbed at Prometheus as he mounted the crest and began sprinting down the ridge like a gymnast doing a vault routine. He doubted Sam was planning to shoot her right away, since they clearly wanted her alive, but plans had changed abruptly already once this evening, so there were no guarantees. At present, Sam seemed satisfied to gesture threateningly at the woman with his oversized gun, advancing around the side of the desk to cut off her route to the door. She looked genuinely terrified, hugging her book to her chest and reluctantly complying as he beckoned her toward him. 

Checking his distance, Prometheus dropped into a slide and launched himself across the road toward the open window; the sensation of seeing himself from below and behind as he sailed through the air over his Zygopter was more than mildly disconcerting. Tucking his limbs, he dove into the room and stumbled into the desk. The impact of his weight against the heavy piece of furniture upset the Newton’s Cradle, bringing an uncomfortable silence to the room. He recovered quickly but immediately found himself staring up into the barrel of Sam’s Magnum.

“Lo siento, ¿me estoy entrometiendo?”² Prometheus gasped, deciding to do the debonaire routine, deepening his bass and spicing it up with a sensual flair. Pushing himself off the table just in time for a line of holes to appear in the polished mahogany where he had just been sprawled. He lunged forward and toward the bookshelves to his right, closing the gap as he avoided Sam’s firing line. “Todos somos amigos, ¿verdad, Señor?”³ he asked as he grabbed the hand cannon’s barrel to keep it angled away from his body.

A startled grunt was Sam’s reply as the binding of Askatla’s book smashed into the side of his head with a crunch that sounded suspiciously like shattering plastic.

“Mira, has enfadado a la señorita,”⁴ Prometheus chastised, grabbing the man’s wrist with his right hand and twisting with his left.

Sam’s attempt at reloading had left his right arm vulnerable. Prometheus released the barrel and swung the wrist in his grasp overhead, pulling to keep it fully extended and the gun aimed at the floor. A sharp jab to the back of the elbow was rewarded with a sickening snap as the joint bent at an angle that ill matched its orientation and the fingers holding the gun flopped limply. Another crack sounded, and the centre of Sam’s mass shifted in a way that bent his elbow double. A wet pop from nearer the torso was followed by a stifled cry. 

“Some people just don’t have the ears for opera,” he commented, releasing Sam’s arm.

The intruder fell heavily to his knees as Prometheus turned to face him head on, his right arm’s tentacular appearance indicating that it posed little danger at this point. Askatla still held the score menacingly after having clocked him on the other ear. A moment later, she stepped forward and swung again, the cover of her book catching him full in the face and sprawling him out across the floor. His night vision goggles were mangled and angled oddly, as if the left eye were a jeweller’s monocle.

“Away put your weapon; I mean you no harm,” Prometheus raised his open hands in front of him. “You have just saved my life and helped subdue this scoundrel, Señorita, I pray that you kindly spare me his fate.”

“I suppose you may have saved mine as well,” Askatla replied in a soft tremulous tone, lowering the book warily. “It would be discourteous of me to repay that act with malice.”

“Would you allow me to ask him some questions?” Prometheus cautiously approached the man once she had nodded her assent. Straddling his still limp body and grabbing him roughly by the collar, he shook the man until he heard a weak moan of consciousness. “Who sent you?” he snarled.

The man groaned feebly in response.

Prometheus slapped at the side of his face to wake him up a bit more, “No sleep for you, Señor Baboso.⁵ You talk first, then you nap.”

“Go fuck yerfelf,” the man gurgled.

A wriggling near his knee alerted Prometheus that Sam still intended to go out swinging. As the sneak drew another M&P with his left hand and made to aim for his head, Prometheus swatted the gun away and brought the heel of his palm down on the man’s temple with enough force to bounce it off the hardwood floor. He was surprised at how soft the strike felt and noted that Sam’s arm was still twitching, so he gave him an extra couple of whacks to make sure he stayed down. While it only looked like a simple knit balaclava, Prometheus could never be sure what kind of gear an opponent might be wearing. His own headwear might look like a basic balaclava from the outside, but beneath the aramid fibre outer layer were plates of silicon carbide and a lining of Kinetigel, much like his armoured suit.

“Or nap now and talk to policía later,” he murmured, rising and turning to face Askatla. Placing a hand on his chest, he addressed her softly, “My apologies, Señorita, he was less cooperative than I had hoped.”

She looked up at him curiously. At a glance, he looked like a giant shadow come to life, a human-shaped black hole in space, as if his clothing absorbed light rather than reflecting or refracting it. With a bit closer inspection, she could spot seams, some structural, others outlining pockets that lay plush to his figure interspersed with smooth black handles and rods she could only assume were sheathed blades or tools strapped snuggly in place. His eyes were covered with a similarly opaque looking set of close-fitted goggles, and on his left forearm was something akin to a gauntlet, the purpose of which she could only guess at.

“What brings you to our humble establishment, Prometheus?” Askatla asked amiably, emboldened by his charming demeanour but still maintaining a safe distance.

Her voice was soft and smooth as silk, yet it had a musical quality which he found himself wishing to hear more of. The way she deliberately enunciated his nom de guerre chimed in his ears like silver bells.

“Surely you do not expect me to believe that you hopped into a fourth-story window by accident,” she continued after a beat of silence. “Perhaps you were here for a secret rendez-vous with someone in our hotel, or were you hoping there would be a reward of some sort for rescuing me?”

“The mere pleasure of your presence is reward enough for me, Señorita,” Prometheus schmoozed with a galante bow, “the hope of which you ignited within me when you opened the window. I interpreted it as an invitation, as it seems this ruffian did, though he clearly lacked appropriate manners. For his own sake, I hope he has learned his lesson; I doubt he would survive a second session of your tutelage.”

“You took a lady opening her window as an invitation?” she raised a brow suspiciously, but the twinkle of mischief in her deep espresso orbs betrayed her mirth. “Do you make a habit of sneaking into ladies’ windows at night? Perhaps I should be wary of your intentions and summon security.”

“There is no need for that, Su Alteza.⁶ I swear by Saints Nicholas and Joshua that my intentions are pure,” he held up his palms like a supplicant, his heart pleading doubly if only so his eyes could continue drinking in the sight of those bottomless demitasses. “I only entered because I wished to be of service.”

“You know,” Askatla paused, a coquettish smile gracing her lips as her fingers drummed the score nestled against her chest. “When you say it like that, a lady could be forgiven for interpreting your actions as an angle at becoming her knight errant,” she mused.

“If you would but have me, Su Alteza,” he found himself shocked at the ardour in his own voice but felt some satisfaction at seeing her cheeks pink as she chuckled lightly at his expense.

Kneeling chivalrously, Prometheus gazed up at her. A merlot satin gown hung from her petit shoulders over a bodice that tastefully hugged her figure before flaring out from her waist like a flower in full bloom, skirts brushing the floor in front of him. From where he knelt, soft light from the ceiling lamp haloed her, partially veiling her countenance in shadow and glinting off her golden hairpin.

“I doubt my lord father would approve of my taking you on, Prometheus,” she hummed as if considering this for the first time. “We have only met this once and, while I have no doubt he would thank you for saving me and offer to reward you handsomely, that may be too much even for him, not without knowing who is beneath that mask at any rate.”

“I fear that that…” Prometheus’ reply was abruptly aborted as the doors to the adjacent room and to the hallway burst open simultaneously and three men charged in, guns drawn. 

The two entering from the hall were burly enough, both in black suits with silver striped burgundy ties and silver lapel pins shaped like a lotus wreathed in laurel. Both wore mirrored glasses and carried Beretta APX EM2s firmly with both hands; one aimed at his head and the other at that of the unconscious man on the floor. The third man had had to tilt down to enter the room lest he scratch his polished dome on the doorframe. His beefy figure filled out his stiffly starched eggshell suit, giving him an ovular outline, while his dour demeanour made him look positively hard boiled. Comically small in his enormous hand was a polished silver pistol that actually gave Prometheus pause, the cavernous barrel portended an unreasonably large calibre while the unnerving blue glow emanating from its action promised plasma charged rounds, which would cause hell for even electrified armour like his.

“Don’t shoot!” Askatla cried out, spinning around and interposing herself between Prometheus and the guards. She stiffened at the sight of her father’s praetorians alongside her own. “He saved my life,” she continued more calmly once all three had lowered their weapons.

“An act I would gladly repeat should I ever find you in need, Señorita,” Prometheus voiced hurriedly, “though I pray you never again find yourself in harm’s way.” 

The leader stepped forward and held out his hand to Askatla, his eyes quickly sweeping over her as if to confirm that she was unharmed. “Je l’ai confirmé, elle est indemne,”⁷ he mumbled, clearly to someone outside the room. With a jerk of his head, the guard aiming at the unconscious man stepped around behind him to maintain a clear firing line.

Noticing motion outside, Prometheus expanded the view from his Zygopter to fill a quarter of his left eye’s vision with a discreet twitch of his finger. The white van had reappeared in the alley below while they were talking. He presumed they had come to pick up their comrade who would be needing extraction. Instead, they dropped off another three, two of which immediately charged down the corridor to the courtyard of Salle Mozart while one hopped the gate as their first man had only minutes prior. 

“Now that you are safely returned to your own guards, I must take my leave,” Prometheus stood slowly, hoping to make his escape before he could be seen talking amiably with their target. “It seems that this vagabond’s compatriots have returned and are now looking for him. I would very much like to catch one and find out who would dare such an outrage upon your personage. I leave the interrogation of this one to your most capable gentilhombres.”

Askatla relaxed her score to her side as she stepped toward her guardian. Placing her delicate right hand gingerly into his broad palm and slightly squeezing it, she gazed up into his stratus orbs, whispering gently but authoritatively, “Let him go unharmed and unpursued, as a favour for saving me, Oeuf.” 

The last word was so light it could be mistaken for a breath, an endearing note lingering in her tone even when her voice was hardly audible. 

“Comme vous voulez, Mademoiselle,”⁸ the giant nodded after a moment of silence. 

“There is one more coming by the way this one did,” Prometheus commented, gesturing past the man still standing by the hallway door in an arc from floor to ceiling. “Perhaps he will be more forthcoming than his friend here was.”

“Prometheus,” Oeuf’s dull bass barely rose as he addressed him directly for the first time, “the Kristensen house will not forget this favour.”

Turning to him with a soft smile, Askatla assented, “Safe travels, Señor.”

Prometheus took one last look at the gracious beauty; the absence of the score revealed a ruby pendant in the shape of a blooming lotus laying strikingly against her porcelain skin, evoking an image of a blazing fire in his mind. “Much akin to her personality,” he chuckled to himself. With a flourish in front of his brow as if tipping an invisible cordobés hat, Prometheus whirled around, took a running start, and hurled himself out the window.

1. Grand Marquis of Security and Intelligence ↩︎
2. My apologies, am I interrupting something? ↩︎
3. We are all friends, is that so, Sir? ↩︎
4. Look, you have angered the lady. ↩︎
5. Mr. Drool-face ↩︎
6. Your Highness ↩︎
7. I have confirmed, she is unharmed. ↩︎
8. As you wish, Mademoiselle. ↩︎

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