As promised last month, here is the continuation and conclusion to our short Christmas vignette. Enjoy, and thank you for your support.
Part 2:
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” Harper demanded.
The clerk at the counter, a woman with curly red hair and an expression that said she’d been working too long during the Christmas Eve rush, shrugged. “I don’t have anything under the name Catros,” she said. “You can submit a ticket through our VI customer representative for more information. If you could just-”
There was a line behind Harper, the same one she’d waited in for nearly forty minutes, but the CIS agent didn’t care. “Check again,” she insisted. She pulled out her phone, the receipt and confirmation of purchase from four months ago already up on the screen.
The clerk’s expression turned from dismissive to mild surprise and then annoyance when she realized that this particular customer did have the evidence to back up her grievance. She looked over Harper’s shoulder to the still-growing line behind her and sighed. “One moment, please.” She called for another self-serve kiosk to open, but it barely made a dent. Kohner’s customer service VIs were notoriously difficult. The only reason Harper had come here to begin with was because they’d been the only store to have pre-orders still available.
Robbie loved the show Galactic Guardians. It was a cartoon about an elite squadron of pilots trapped deep behind enemy lines, fighting against terrorists and rebels. The current arc had the heroes swallowed by a wormhole and thrown across the universe, amidst new species and old enemies. The squadron’s flagship was the Phoenix Flame, currently the heroes’ only home and refuge. Six months ago, a special edition model of the third season version of Phoenix Flame had been announced alongside a second production run of the first season model. Robbie had told her all the ways that the new Phoenix Flame, was different than the standard toy and briefed her on all its extra functions.
When the original Phoenix Flame toy had been released two years ago, she’d been on assignment and when she got back, it had been sold out everywhere. She’d promised to get it for Robbie for his seventh birthday. He’d been crushed. The company hadn’t made another production run until they’d announced the new version of Phoenix Flame and from what she’d heard, that run was even more limited than the limited edition. She’d gotten hold of the stores that were going to offer a pre-order only to find that many other parents and collectors had had the same idea and called up to “put their names down” – not a pre-order, which would have violated the store’s contract with the distributor – and all of the models were spoken for even before they officially came up for pre-order.
Kohner’s had been her last chance. They’d had one toy left on the ‘pre-order’ slot and Harper had nabbed it, paying in full to make sure that they’d set it aside for her. She could have had Fiona go in, but the store was picky about making sure that the same person picked up the package as had ordered it. Besides, she wanted to be the one to give this to Robbie, even if she wasn’t able to make it back for Christmas. She’d missed her chance the first time and wanted to make up for it.
“Let me see...” the clerk said, going over the store’s records. “I’m seeing your payment here, but I’m not seeing a corresponding item with that number. We might have gotten short-changed on inventory.”
“Please check,” Harper said, her own irritation mounting. “I was told that your number of items was locked in.” Kohner’s might have terrible VI and questionable customer service, but they were one of the larger department chains in the Eastern Hemisphere and this was Kiel Point’s biggest store. They were not going to get short-stocked like a corner toy store.
“Yeah,” the agent said, not really looking like she wanted to check any more than she wanted to do anything other than shoo Harper away so she could deal with the next annoyance in line. “I’ll put a query in to our stocking system. We can get back to you within-”
“Can you check now?” Harper asked, putting her hands behind her back to avoid clenching them in front of the other woman. She knew a ‘please fuck off’ when she heard it, but she’d paid her money. She’d been promised this toy. She’d been counting on it. She didn’t want to disappoint Robbie again.
“It might take a few minutes-” the agent said with corporate-mandated politeness, but you didn’t need to be an intelligence agent to know that she really wanted to say something else.
“I can wait,” Harper assured her. “I put my money down. I was told one of these would be held for me. I’d like what I paid for.” She wasn’t even being unreasonable. She’d done everything the correct way and all she wanted was what she’d been told would be available.
The agent pursed her lips. “One moment, please.” She tapped on her headset, whispering in hushed tones that she didn’t think Harper could hear, but the woman’s implants picked up perfectly. The CIS agent had been called worse. A few moments of back and forth, checks on computers and more chatter took place before the customer service representative came back.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and this time she sounded close to sincere. “I spoke with our stock team and they double-checked our inventory. Everything we have was sold. It’s possible, uh,” she paused, “it’s possible that someone thought the items were unclaimed and put them on the shelves...” she kept talking, but Harper had already tuned her out. Kohner’s policy was that paid pre-orders couldn’t be sold until a year after the purchaser had been notified of their arrival and they’d been fully refunded, and neither of those were true in her case.
Sure, it was possible that someone had made that kind of mistake, but just scanning the item would have shown it was being held for pickup. She knew exactly what had happened. Someone had realized there’d been a number of uncollected Phoenix Flames and talked to one of workers. A few credits had changed hands, the items had been marked as sold and they’d gone into the back of some scalper’s truck. By the time anyone noticed that the inventory was missing, Harper and everyone else who’d managed to get the last few pre-orders in the city would be shit out of luck, just like she was now.
“...I can offer you a complete refund as well as put you down as a priority when we get a new order in...” the woman was saying.
“There won’t be a new order,” Harper told her, her tone dropping several degrees. This wasn’t the woman’s fault, but it was her company that had just fucked her over. “This was a limited production run.” And they didn’t even have the standard Phoenix Flame left, either. Great. Just great. “You can process my refund now.”
“Because of the, er, inconvenience,” the woman continued, the sudden iciness in the brunette’s tone more unsettling than a thousand screaming customers demanding the impossible. “And because this was a mixup on our end, I can offer you an additional gift card of 50 credits...”
“That will be fine,” Harper said, though right now she wouldn’t have cared what they offered. She’d wanted two things this Christmas. The first was to spend it with her son. The second was to get him the toy he’d been wanting for two years. She knew he’d like the rest of his presents, but getting him this particular one had been as much for her as it was for him. She’d wanted to see his face when he opened it, when he realized that he finally had a Phoenix Flame for his own.
“Your money has been refunded,” the customer service rep told Harper, handing her the gift card. “I’m sorry. If there’s anything else I can do...”
“Thank you, but there isn’t,” Harper told her, tucking the card into her wallet and heading out of the store. Christmas was far from ruined, but the one she’d hoped to have had just crumbled in front of her.
~
The messenger hummed to himself as he watched through a window overlooking the street below. Twilight was just beginning and the streetlights were coming on. A faint skiff of snow hung in the air, drifting ever so slowly to the ground, and there was little traffic. The messenger took a quick drink from his water bottle, his eyes fixed on the house across the street. The flat he’d taken up residence in was currently unoccupied, its owners away on vacation. Kiel Point might be a scenic place, but its weather was severe and a lot of its populace, particularly those with the means and allowance to do so, preferred to spend the winter months in one of Rally’s more gentle climates.
The messenger surely did. He hated the cold, and Kiel Point was known for its biting winter chill. He wouldn’t even be in this city right now except for his patron’s request and the money he was getting for it. The money was nice, but you couldn’t spend credits when you were dead. He’d needed to see the groundwork for the op before he’d signed on. To his client’s credit, they’d done a lot of the prep before contacting him. He’d told his patron what else he’d needed and they’d taken care of everything.
This apartment was a third-story flat that looked down into his target’s home and provided excellent sight lines into the living room and the upper bedroom. The building had several avenues of escape and an underground parkade for the residents that provided access to the underground tramway. He’d slipped in here in the middle of the night when the other residents of the building were sleeping. The apartment complex’s security system had been scrubbed of his arrival, and the cameras and motion sensors in this flat were looped into readings of still, empty rooms, and water and energy usage counters had been hacked to hide his presence.
He’d never gone out, only had food delivered when everyone else on the floor was asleep or out of the building. He didn’t make noise, didn’t leave anything of himself behind. He’d been here for a few days already and no one was the wiser. His belongings stayed packed and once the job was complete, he’d be out the door in moments. There were no witnesses to his presence and he’d leave no trace that he’d ever been here. CIS would be left chasing its own tail.
Public, he’d been told. And brutal. You get me? I want it ugly. Can you handle that?
The messenger could. He didn’t normally like jobs like this. The Compact tended to hold onto grudges when one of its own, even a Broken, got taken out. CIS in particular was funny about that. Agents dying in the field was one thing. Something like this was quite another, but the messenger’s patron had made a convincing case... and a fat deposit to his bank account. He’d have to go underground while the cinders settled, but this wasn’t the first time he’d done that, either.
Humming softly to himself, the messenger opened the second of the two cases that he’d brought with him. The first contained all his clothes and toiletries. The second was how he’d deliver his message.
It was a long rifle, modified for quiet work. The messenger never touched it without gloves, taking a smaller case out from within the larger one. In it were a selection of bullets. The messenger preferred to work with projectiles. Some in his line of work liked energy weapons, but the messenger didn’t like the beam. It gave anyone looking a straight line to where you were. Projectiles were harder to pinpoint and easier to get hold of. They could also be tailored to the mission. He had a selection of armour piercing, mass reactive, hollow point, hot shots and others, his long fingers drifting over them. He’d need something sturdy, something that would assure a kill on the first and only shot.
He’d gone over the target house’s floor plan. He didn’t expect to have to go inside, but one couldn’t be too careful. It wasn’t a fortress, but its owner had clearly considered security. The doors had been reinforced to the point that a human wouldn’t be able to break them down and a Tribune wouldn’t get through them easily. The windows were high-grade shatter resistant glass. You could hit them full force with a hammer and they might crack.
The messenger would have preferred a subsonic round, but that glass might stop the bullet cold. If it did get through, it would lose force and tumble any which way. Nothing was more humiliating than lining up a perfect headshot and blowing up a lamp a meter away – well, except your bullet just giving your target a nasty bruise. Besides, his client had made what they wanted perfectly clear. They wanted the sound of a gunshot to shatter the peace and tranquility of Christmas morning and the target to spend her last moments, if any, bleeding out in front of her son.
Public, ugly and brutal.
Yes, he’d promised. I’ll do that.
~
Harper woke up to a figure leaning over her. In any other circumstances, she might have lashed out at them, going for the pistol in her nightstand, but even half-asleep, she’d recognize her son anywhere. “Hey there,” she said, sitting up. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost seven,” Robbie answered, practically hopping from foot to foot.
Harper smiled. “How long have you been up?”
“Just an hour.”
“Uh huh. And really?”
He looked sheepish. “I got up at four. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Well, thanks for letting me sleep in.” She was exhausted but Robbie, despite his excitement for the holiday, had let her catch up on her sleep. “How many times did you check to see if I was awake?”
“Only a couple times.”
So, five or six. “Okay, I’m up now,” she told him. “Let’s go see what’s under the tree.”
“Wait wait wait!” Robbie shouted, disappearing out the door and coming back a moment later with a box he’d obviously wrapped himself and a card he’d personally drawn. “Open mine first!” he said as he held the box out towards Harper. “Fiona helped me pick the first thing,” he added as she accepted it. “But I made the second just for you.”
She opened the card and smiled. The sentiment was simple, but heartfelt. Merry Christmas, Mom. “Why don’t you help me open this?” she asked, pulling Robbie into her lap and giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“Maaa-ooom,” he complained.
“I told you, it’s my right as a mother to embarrass you. Even when you’re all grown up, you’re still going to be my little boy. Now, come on. You’re not the only one who likes presents.”
Robbie helped Harper open her gift, his little hands all but tearing the wrapping paper into a flurry of shreds. Inside was a simple, synthesized two-compartment box. In the first compartment was a set of vids, Secrets of the Ancients. It was a documentary series on pre-Compact species, and she’d missed it when it had been first broadcast on Rally.
Ever since her mission to Baheila Osz, she’d developed an interest in older civilizations. The operation had been highly classified and what she’d found – been given – had been whisked to a classified research site, but she remembered everything about the mission. The fear, the terror... and the wonder. She’d followed in the footsteps of giants and she’d started to wonder what else was out there, buried and waiting to be found...
And, though she wasn’t ready to admit it even to herself, it made her think of her mother. It had been years since the mission, and she still grappled with its consequences, still chased shadows looking for... for what, she wasn’t even certain. Truth, she supposed, as ephemeral a concept that was. But this wasn’t the time. Today was about her actual family, not ghosts.
Next to the set of vid discs was a hand-made mug. On one side was a small starscape with the words When you’re out there, encircling it. On the other was a drawing of their house, with a boy standing in the open doorway and waving. You’re still here.
Harper covered her mouth with one hand.
“Mom?” Robbie asked. “Do you like it?”
The woman brushed wetness from the corners of her eyes. “I love it,” she said, pulling him closer. “It’s the best thing I could have gotten. Thank you.” She stood up, putting him back down as she carefully set her gift box on the bed. “Come on,” Harper told Robbie as she took his hand. “Let’s go see what Santa brought you.”
~
The messenger smiled, peering through the scope, looking through the downstairs window of the house across the street. His window was open, just enough for the barrel of the gun to peek out, but a bitter draft still slipped in from outside. It was a calm Christmas; there was no wind, only the soft patter of fluffy snow, but the messenger nonetheless shivered. He wasn’t made for the cold.
The curtains of his target house were were half-shut and his field of view into the living room was limited, but that wasn’t a problem. He switched scan modes on the rifle’s scope, bringing up heat imaging. He could see the warmth of the lamps, the glow of the lights on the ridiculous tree, and the moving shapes of two human bodies. One was small. That wasn’t his target. He moved the gun slowly, panning it onto the second figure.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “There you are.” He’d been waiting more than a week for this moment, watching the boy and his caretaker go in and out of the house. He’d watched the happy reunion between mother and son yesterday, but he hadn’t been able to take advantage of it. The one thing his client hadn’t be able to provide was the target’s expected arrival, only that she was supposed to be home sometime over the holidays. But it was all to the good, anyways. The client had been specific about what they wanted.
Public and brutal. There was nothing more brutal than killing someone in front of their children on what should be one of the happiest days of their life. That would blow a hole through the kid’s psyche that would never heal, and send a message to every other agent who thought they could fuck with the syndicate.
Nowhere is safe from us. And, of course, it delivered the message that the client wanted. You take me away from my child, and I’ll take you away from yours. The messenger didn’t care about any of that. In his experience, mixing personal scores with business made things messy. He liked his jobs neat and easy to scratch off. The money for this one more than made up for the extra difficulty – and taking out a CIS agent and get away with it surely counted as difficult. Not that he’d been averse to it. The messenger had killed a lot of people in his career. Members of other syndicates, police and government employees, private citizens who’d gotten in the way, men and women alike. He’d never failed to deliver a message and not once had the morality of the situation ever bothered him. This was just another job.
Crosshairs drifted onto the woman’s head. She had no idea she was being watched. In these moments, the messenger felt almost like a god. None of them ever knew he was there until it was too late and most of them never did. His breath was even and slow. He’d had days to deliberate whether to go for a headshot or to shoot her in the throat, but settled on the former. Make it brutal, but also clean. The kid wouldn’t have to watch his mother drown in her own blood. Just a quick red spray and then it would be done.
The messenger slid his finger into the trigger. He exhaled, about ready for the final, fatal squeeze when the curtains next to him stirred. He froze. There was still no wind outside and he hadn’t touched the window. That movement wasn’t from anything he’d done, but from a waft of air from inside. Somewhere in this apartment, a door had just been opened.
He cursed to himself. Even if he could take the shot without alerting his unwanted visitors, his aim had been spoiled. The target had already moved, leaning closer to her son. The messenger’s hands curled into fists, his eyes darting towards the bedroom door and he cocked his head, listening. Most likely, the apartment’s occupants had come back from vacation early, or a friend or family member had decided to check in on their place. Whoever it was and whatever their reason, it was bad luck for them. He and his patron had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure his presence stayed unknown. He couldn’t make a clean getaway with someone else here. He’d have to take care of them, then set up his shot again.
Only something was wrong. The flat didn’t feel right. The messenger didn’t hear the careless, unafraid footsteps of visitors that knew this residence. He didn’t hear anyone call out to announce themselves. He didn’t even hear the wary scuff of feet from burglars looking to loot homes left empty over the holidays.
There was no sound at all, no hint of movement, but the atmosphere in the silent apartment had changed, like a jungle going quiet with the presence of a predator. The messenger had honed his instincts over years work as a paid killer and he trusted them now. Someone else was here, and it was someone just like him – and they certainly weren’t on his side.
The rifle was too large and cumbersome to wield in close-quarters, so the messenger reached into his coat, drawing his pistol from a shoulder holster. It was a laser weapon, quieter and less likely to raise an alarm before he could eliminate his true target.
Being in a part of town where the residents had higher social assimilation scores, the apartment was a bit larger than normal. The main doorway led left to the kitchen, bathroom, a small storage and laundry room and a second bedroom where the messenger had set up his rifle. To the right, there was the sitting room and the master bedroom, with a hall closet just across from the kitchen island. There was no one in the kitchen itself, but...
But.
The door to the hall closet was slightly ajar. Not much at all, barely enough to be noticed under any normal circumstances, but the messenger hadn’t lived this long in his career without being attentive to detail. He didn’t smile, didn’t give the game away in case whoever was in there was looking out at him. He continued ahead, sweeping the hall with his pistol, getting closer...
... he spun at the last second, flinging the closet door open and pointing his gun at-
-nothing. There was a vacuum, a robo-cleaner’s recharge port and various other household tools, but nothing else.
He frowned. What-?
The attack came from behind, a figure leaping over the kitchen island-
-he must have been behind it, circling around as the messenger approached-
-quiet, this bastard’s too damned quiet-
-he’d been tricked, the door had been left ajar just for this-
-the messenger spun, but the newcomer was faster. He was coming over the island feet-first and they connected hard with the messenger’s chest, slamming him against the wall. The attacker grabbed the messenger’s wrist and twisted, hard, forcing him to drop the gun. The attacker kicked it away. He reached into his coat for a weapon of his own, but the messenger jutted his head forward, slamming it against the attacker’s face and staggering him back, buying him a moment’s breathing space.
Knives came out next. The intruder was a Broken, taller than the messenger. Brown hair, green eyes. He looked like every other human on the planet.
As both men caught their breath, they circled around each other. The fluorescent lights overheard glinted off their knives. The messenger’s was small and concealable, but it was sturdy and reliable. The intruder’s was a surplus combat dagger.
The human was the first to speak. “You’re not bad,” he said to the assassin. The Vincent family’s hired killer was a Shimmer. They were annoying, shifting colours to try and blend in, or flashing bright hues across their skin to distract you. “It took a little longer to track you down than I thought it would. I was afraid I wouldn’t get here in time.” He had a derringer in his jacket provided by local assets, but that was a last resort. A gunshot would alert everyone on this floor and he didn’t want to deal with the KPPD.
“Who are you?” the assassin demanded, off-orange eyes focusing on him, his skin shifting to pastels to blend in with the beige apartment walls. “CIS?”
“No, just a humble courier,” the human answered him. The Shimmer’s outline was harder to track now, but he kept his eye on the knife. “With a message to deliver.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It’s not for you,” the courier replied. “It’s for your employer. Seems like Vincent’s overstepped himself. He needs to learn to stay in his lane.”
“If you’re not CIS, why do you care? This is just some intel keiba sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Like I said, I’m a courier – and I always make my deliveries.”
After that, there were no more words. Metal sang as knives skirted against each other, accompanied by grunts of exertion and gasped inhalations. The courier sucked in a breath as an underhand strike carved a deep cut beneath his ribs. The blade was already coming back, but the assassin had overextended himself and the courier pushed in, using his shoulder to pin the Shimmer’s arm to the wall and driving his own weapon into the other man’s chest. It went in right to the hilt.
White flashed across the assassin’s skin and his eyes bulged in shock. He tried to jam his knife into the courier’s back, but the human’s bulk had his arm immobilized. His other hand clawed at the courier’s face, gloved fingers digging as deep as they could into the human’s skin.
“What’s... she to you?” the assassin seethed, blood seeping through his teeth.
“Don’t know,” the courier told him. He twisted the knife and dragged it laterally between the Shimmer’s ribs. “And I don’t care.”
A final pained gasp rasped out of the assassin’s mouth. It rattled as it left and it took the last of his strength with it. His hand slid off the courier’s face, his legs went limp and when the other man stepped back, the assassin slid down to the floor, eyes turning glassy. His head lolled down his chest, hands resting palms-up like a monk in beatific repose.
The courier clutched his side. Their fight had carried them down the hallway and through the door to the empty second bedroom, he saw the assassin’s rifle, unused and resting on the windowsill, its barrel just under the open window.
‘Time-sensitive’ indeed!
The courier kicked the knife away from the dead man’s hands, wincing as he looked down at his flank and finally seeing the dark stain spreading over his clothes. Deeper than it had felt. “Damn it,” he whispered. He stumbled into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and grabbing a roll of bandages. Once he’d tended to his injury, he dragged the Shimmer’s body into the bathroom, dropping it into the bathtub. He went back to the kitchen and took a cleaver from the knife block.
The job wasn’t done yet.
~
A few of Robbie’s classmates and friends had gotten him presents, and he’d done the same for them as well, but most of the presents under the tree were from Harper, by way of Fiona.
Harper didn’t have a big family. Her father had had a brother, but he worked on the other side of the planet and didn’t come around much. Harper and he didn’t get along, but Robbie was still his grand-nephew so he’d put money in a trust for Robbie and added to it every birthday and Christmas, and sent a card on those occasions as well. Her mother had a sister; Auntie Maria. She’d sent Robbie a new book and a toy figure of one of the characters from Galactic Guardians. At one time, Maria had happily looked after Robbie when Harper was working, and she was still a part of his life, but she wasn’t there nearly as much as she had been. She said it was because of work, but Harper could guess why Auntie Maria didn’t visit as much.
From her mother, Harper and Robbie received a card that, despite the handwritten signature beneath the holiday wishes, felt as sterile as a doctor’s office. She’d been more and more distant ever since Harper’s father was killed, but over the last few years the separation between them only become more pronounced until it felt like they were practically strangers. When she’d been younger, Harper hadn’t understood what she’d done wrong. It felt like for every step she made towards her mother, her mother took one back. When she was eighteen, she’d learned the truth. She was her father’s daughter, not her mother’s. In Harper’s face and certainly in her eyes, Lillian Catros had only seen echoes of the husband she’d lost and nothing of herself. Harper wasn’t hers. Worst of all, she wasn’t even theirs.
Harper had been angry for a long time. She didn’t understand how the mother that had carried her, held her, nursed her and raised her could just... fade away. That anger might have led her to dark places if Dietrich hadn’t seen something in her. He’d supported her, helped her, shaped her into the agent and asset he knew she could be. Through that, she’d come to terms with that anger. In spite of everything, she still loved her mother, but she knew Lillian saw her duty to raise her as long done. Robbie might as well have been a stranger’s child for all the effort her mother had put in to seeing him.
The doorbell chimed, a blessed distraction from the inevitable conclusion of those thoughts and another woman, one who’d never even known she’d existed, but shared so much with her...
Harper frowned as the bell went off a second time. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she checked the front camera on her personal ‘scroll. On the front step was a delivery man holding a large parcel. Behind him, she could see a van with his company logo on it. “Who’s that, Mom?” Robbie asked, looking up from his toys. He’d constructed a fort out of empty boxes and was waging close-quarters combat between his action figures.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Stay there; I’ll be right back.” She got up and headed to the front door. “Yes?” she said into the intercom.
The delivery man held up the box in his hands. “Registered delivery for Ms. and Master Catros.”
“ID?” she asked. Normally she wouldn’t have thought that much about a delivery driver, but today was Christmas... and she hadn’t ordered anything.
The man held his company ID up in front of the camera. The software for Harper’s home security system was a little different than standard civilian tech and CIS had included a few non-standard functions in it. The camera scanned his ID and connected to citizen and corporate registries, finding a match in the system. Paul Cordalier, driver for Point to Point Deliveries.
Harper opened the door, but she still eyed him up and down. The package in his hands was fairly big. He shifted it to one hand and held a small ‘scroll towards her. “ID?” he asked in turn. “I need to confirm who’s receiving the package.”
She showed him her governmental ID. His eyes widened a little when he saw she was CIS, but he didn’t comment. “Just sign here,” he said, gesturing to the scroll.
Harper looked over the package. The only return address was a toy company on the either side of the planet. It was wrapped with plain brown paper. “I didn’t think you guys delivered on holidays,” she said.
“We normally don’t, but sometimes we get called in for a little extra work. Usually happens when someone higher up the chain makes a promise and things get gummed up. I’ve just got a second stop, and I get a whole day’s pay, so who am I to turn it down?” He smiled. “You must be someone pretty special.”
“Maybe,” she said as she took the box. “But aren’t we all?”
“Not all of us get packages delivery on the holidays,” the man said with a smile. He tipped his hat towards her. “Merry Christmas, ma’am.”
Harper brought the box inside. Her paranoia was on overdrive, but her intuition was even louder than that, and it told her that there was nothing in the box that would hurt her or her son. Still...
“What is it, Mom?”
“It’s something for us,” she replied. “Stay right there; I’ll open it and see what it is.”
She took it into the kitchen, peeling the paper and cardboard exterior away carefully. Nothing activated or exploded, but underneath she could see two cards. One was marked ‘Robbie’ and the other said ‘Harper’. She picked up the one with her name first and opened the envelope. On it was a picture of a snowman family. A mother and her son in a lovely log house and outside... was a snow grandmother with a red toque, a red scarf... and red mittens.
Oh, very cute.
“Hey,” Harper called, getting up and rushing back to the door, but by the time she got there, the delivery van had already left. She was left staring at the falling snow for a moment before finally turning back inside.
She carried the box back over to the tree and pulled out the card with Robbie’s name on it.
“‘I know you wanted this really badly’,” she read aloud. “‘And I heard that you were a good boy this year, so I had my elves make an extra one just for you, but there are so many good girls and boys out there that sometimes my workshops run a little behind and I don’t get everything in my sleigh on time. Keep up the good work and don’t be too hard on your mom. She loves you very much. With kindness from the North Pole.... Mr. S Claus’.”
Harper pulled away the rest of the packaging, staring at the contents. “I think,” she said, handing it over to her son. “This is for you.” It was the limited edition model of Phoenix Flame, the one she’d tried so hard to get her hands on. Robbie shrieked with joy, so excited that he could hardly contain himself. He picked up the box like it was a beloved pet, setting it down just as carefully as he planned how to open it without damaging the box itself. As he gently pried the toy out, Harper read her own letter.
It was short and the words were printed out rather than written by hand. There was no chance that any human had touched, denying Harper any leads for finding who’d been involved in getting this to her. You know me that well, don’t you? Yeah, she had to admit. I guess you do.
She read the letter once, then again and a third time. It was short and to the point.
Merry Christmas to you and the little guy.
Stay safe out there.
No name was signed and there was nothing personal at all about the message, but it stuck in Harper’s heart like an icicle. God damn you, she thought, but the words came without venom. At least for today. Today, her mother had wished her a Merry Christmas and given her son another reason to smile.
Today, and just for today, there really was magic in air.
~
The courier paused in front of the house, taking a brief glance through the window. Inside, a little boy was holding a blue and silver spaceship above his head, rushing around the room in excitement as his mother watched him. He turned away as she caught sight of him, heading up the street towards a bus stop, a box under his arm.
His breath burned in his throat, but he’d stopped the bleeding. He’d suffered worse. The Red Queen herself had done worse to him and he’d lived through that. A little knife-fight wasn’t going to sign his papers today, and he had a promise to keep.
The organization didn’t have a lot of assets on the planet, but enough to stay informed. Vincent had been incensed that CIS and Catros in particular had laid hands upon his son, and he was terrified that his partners might try to silence Joachim. Injured pride and fear for a loved one could make anyone act rashly. Credit where it was due, though. When Vincent had hired his killer to take out Catros, he’d been able to hide it from CIS... but not the Red Hand.
The courier didn’t know what the Red Queen’s interest was in this woman. Maybe she was a double agent, a plant within CIS or maybe there were other plans that the Red Queen had for her. He didn’t know and probably never would. The Red Queen was a creature of secrets, but he had faith in her. If she asked him to kill for her, he would. If she asked him to die, he’d do that too.
Just before he stepped onto the bus, he took one last look at the house where a woman and her son enjoyed Christmas morning. Kiel Point’s chill sank deep, reaching all the way to his injury, but he wasn’t done yet. The cleaners had been called, and the apartment would be good as new when its owners returned, but there was just one bit of business left before he took his leave of Rally.
He was the Courier, and his message still needed to reach its recipient.
~
It was Christmas morning in the Vincent household. Elijah Vincent, patriarch of the Vincent family and head of Vincent Industrial Exports and all its subsidiary companies and less-official revenue streams was watching the children play with their gifts. His sister and her family were here – she had a son and two daughters, but Vincent’s only child was Joachim. His daughter-in-law was present, along with his grandchildren. She didn’t want to bring them, but Elijah had made her aware that she had no right to keep him from them. He’d heard hints that she’d been considering divorce, but he’d also made sure that she knew that that too couldn’t happen.
Despite the children’s excitement, there was a pall over the holiday. Joachim was in custody and if what Elijah had heard was true, his son had been whisked off to some Triarchs-forsaken black box. He was doing everything he could to get Joachim free, leaning on his friends in the government and industry, speaking to the right people, but CIS had its fingers around his boy tighter than a miser held onto a credit chit.
Vincent’s partners were deeply unhappy about the situation. He’d told them he’d deal with it, but he could tell that their patience was running out. Joachim had been integral in expanding the Vincent family’s interests beyond Rally. The risk of him talking was making his partners nervous and, as they’d told Vincent, if CIS had him, he would talk. Scratching someone inside a CIS black site was nearly impossible but from what they’d hinted, ‘nearly’ covered more ground than he’d imagined.
The only way to keep Joachim safe and maybe even get him back was to make sure that the investigation around him curdled up. Elijah had taken care of all that. Somewhere in Kiel Point, someone else’s family Christmas was even now marred by the loss of a family member. Good. He’d wanted it done like that. He’d asked for it specifically.
You didn’t lay hands on a Vincent without there being a reckoning, and Elijah had brought it down upon the agent who’d taken his boy away from him.
The old sat and watched his grandchildren and tried to find solace in their happiness, but just when it seemed like it was about to find him, one of his men arrived, leaning over and whispering in his ear. He nodded and stood. His daughter-in-law saw, but he gestured for her and everyone else to remain, putting on a fixed smile and telling them he had a bit of business to take care of.
A frown creasing his face, Elijah followed his man into his office. Sitting on the large table was a present in shiny wrapping paper. “This just arrived at the front door,” the other man said. “Security systems caught someone delivering it, but we didn’t see a face. Gate guard swears he didn’t see anyone and logs confirm that he didn’t open the gate. We scanned it and it came up clean. Dwight,” he nodded to one of the other men in the room. All of them wore serious, grim expressions, their attention all focused on the box, “opened it. We thought you should see it.”
“It was addressed to you, sir,” Dwight added, pushing the box towards Elijah.
There was a single-sheet card on top. It showed a black and white aerial picture of the Vincent family home and its grounds, ringed with a border of snow. It read, From my house to yours on this holiday season.
Elijah opened the box. He froze as he saw the contents. A pair of hands, Shimmer hands, were inside. They’d been hacked off at at the wrist, but it wasn’t the dismemberment that gave the man pause. Each of them had been painted red, gobs of paint sticking to the inside of the box. There was another note held between them. Quelling the sudden tremble in his hands, the older man picked up the folded card. When he opened it, the blood drained from his face.
Hello Elijah, the note read.
I trust this message is clear enough that I won’t have to go into detail about the line you crossed and the consequences if I even think you’re considering it ever again. Your partners on Peka have received a similar notice, but just so there is no possibility of confusion, let me be clear: I’ve let you play your games on Rally, but there are limits to what I’ll allow. You just found one. Whatever protestations you want to make, excuses you have or technicalities you can come up with – I don’t care.
If you or your friends try something like this again, I’ll come for all of you. As the contents of this package should attest, my patience in this matter is already at its end. Stop kicking the beehive, because it won’t be CIS coming to clean up.
Oh – and enjoy your Christmas.
Let’s hope it’s not your last.
Epilogue:
“How are you doing?” Adrianna asked as Aiden sat down across from her. The oversized desk was gone and the office felt more befitting of the Red Queen than it had the last time he’d been here.
“Good. Clean bill of health.” The knife had gone deep, but nothing vital had been hit. He’d been able to complete his mission. “Message delivered.”
“Good.” Adrianna said. She didn’t like having to flex her muscle around Rally. It drew too much of the Compact’s attention, but there were times when she had no other option. She’d kept track of Vincent’s dealings, but never bothered with him. She wasn’t trying to compete, just make sure she knew all the players back home. Recently, Vincent had gotten in bed with another organization, and a particularly unsavoury one at that. That too, hadn’t been worth her attention. Until they’d crossed a line. Vincent and his partners alike. They’d gone after someone they shouldn’t have. They’d gone after her daughter.
Neither Vincent nor his friends had known that. No one but Adrianna and Harper knew who they were to each other – except, Adrianna suspected, someone within the Compact who’d found delicious irony in steering the unknowing mother and daughter towards each other on a collision course. It had been years and she still hadn’t been able to prove that, but she didn’t need to.
If Harper had been any other CIS agent, Adrianna wouldn’t have cared, but she wasn’t. She was Adrianna’s flesh and blood. The thing she thought she’d sacrificed for her war and her ambitions, a glimpse of a life unlived and a potential future that never happened. In their vindictive ignorance, Vincent and his partners had drawn her attention, and she’d made sure that they knew it.
The woman’s voice cracked a little “And the... other thing?”
Aiden pulled a small data chip out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was a common storage disc that you could use with phones, comm units and cameras. He didn’t ask why she’d wanted what was on it or what possible relevance it had to her. It wasn’t his mission, nor his job. The Red Queen’s secrets were not his to know.
“Thank you,” Adrianna told her favourite killer. “Good work out there.”
He stood, smiling once. “Thank you, Majesty.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Adrianna inserted the fingernail-sized disc into a chip reader. There were a lot of photos. Almost all were of Kiel Point, taken at places of interest to tourists just to fill out the data so that its true contents wouldn’t arouse suspicion if it were found. Her fingers scrolled past thumbnails until her augmented eyes caught what she was looking for.
A two-story brownstone house. Common enough, better than most were allotted. She knew the address by heart. Harper lived there. Harper and her son, Adrianna’s grandson, Robert Catros. Aiden had taken several pictures, but like a strange gift, there was one that was perfect. It was taken through the open window of the house’s living room. A Christmas tree sat off to one side, casting a multi-coloured glow across the room. The boy was caught mid-bound, holding the Phoenix Flame above his head as he ran around. Harper sat on the ground, looking at her son in quiet, contemplative joy. It was a tiny, perfect instant in time captured in frame.
Adrianna covered her mouth to stifle a sob as a rush of emotion hit her, harder than she’d ever expected. She felt tears run down her cheeks as, just for a moment, it felt like she was there with them. With the daughter and grandchild she could never acknowledge, in a life she could never have.
Merry Christmas, baby girl.