Bloch had come back in the end. He'd seriously considered staying away, ditching the gun and the fine coat and slipping into a life of honest, obscure drudgery; some opportunities just weren't worth the risks they entailed. But his indecision had been short lived. He had to go back. He could live no other way. The only alternative was death, and he much preferred the thought of being blown from an airlock for his failure than bleeding out in an alleyway, or OD-ing in a dirty bathroom - the traditional checking-out methods for guys like him. Execution seemed so much more dignified.
So, he'd returned to the fold, banking that the success of his man in assassinating Constantin Kolarov would outweigh his failure to dispatch the bounty hunters. And so it had proved, but only just. He'd been forced to endure another unnerving audience with Tiamat, the brooding presence of the doorman at his shoulder, but he'd come out of it alive and with his career intact. But he'd got the distinct impression that both of those situations would change very quickly should there be any further disappointments.
When news of an attack on the installation had reached Bloch in the common area, he had been relieved, pleased even. This sort of thing was much more his speed, recalling his days as a street brawler, dumb muscle. Sure, the cloak and dagger stuff paid well, but it was outside his comfort zone. Nils Bloch would take a toe-to-toe fight over a dagger in the back any day.
The LED display above the elevator changed from the number one to an upward-pointing arrow. The lift was on the way up, carrying Lao and his team back to the car room where they would relieve Bloch and his men, the four of whom would then transfer to the anteroom outside Tiamat's throne room, there to stand guard until the threat was neutralised. Control was already sending the car across to ferry his team to the heart of the facility, suspended eight hundred meters above the centre of the dish.
Bloch did not look forward to heading back over and re-joining the doorman; that guy gave him the creeps. But he disliked the stuck-up Lao even more. Lao had been a middling agent back in the days before the fall and looked down on guys like Bloch who had moved into the vacancies left behind by those of Lao's comrades who hadn't turned and run when it looked like the war wasn't going their way.
But even worse than the company of those two men was the thought of 'cleaning up' the telescope staff once the project was complete. Bloch had shaken down his fair share of honest folk in his time, but mass murder was way outside of his old remit. He would gladly spoon feed soup to those three terrifying old ladies if it meant he need have no part in that task.
The elevator display changed from an arrow to the letter C with an incongruously jolly ping, followed by a thump as the car came to rest. The doors had only slid open a few inches when a small cylindrical object rolled out onto the linoleum. Bloch new what it was as soon as he saw it, feeling a moment of detached interest as to why such a thing was rolling about in the car dock. That detachment was broken as the young man to his right, Gomez, stepped forward and stooped to pick the object up.
"Grenade!" Bloch bellowed, even as he was turning to fling himself away.
And then the room was gone, its walls and contents bleached from existence by a searing white light. Something struck him. The concussion? The floor? The wall? Bloch's senses were a jumble, as if his nerves were sending signals to the wrong parts of his brain.
The intruders. The thought came to him from a distance, like it belonged to someone else. They were here. Now.
The shuffling of feet. This was the first thing to pierce the fog of Bloch's scrambled mind. Next came the sense that he was lying face down, and that if he moved, he might vomit up everything he'd eaten for the last two days. And he could hear voices. Two of them, one chastising the other for using a concussion grenade in an enclosed space. Incredibly, it seemed that this was not the first time it had happened.
More shuffling, and the rattle of firearms. They were disarming his comrades, checking them over. At least two of his boys were dead, if the conversation taking place over Bloch's prostrate body was anything to go by, gunned down in a firefight from which Bloch had been benched by the detonation of the grenade. Not that there would have been much of a fight; the disorientation brought on the blast must have rendered his team helpless. Bloch guessed he had only survived by virtue of having been the only one to react to the threat. Most likely the intruders thought they'd killed him too. It would be an easy mistake to make in the confusion.
A third man was pronounced dead. Bloch would be next to be checked over and disarmed. He would need to move quickly and decisively, being now the only line of defence left beside the doorman and Tiamat's four-man personal guard. Back in the day, the Van would have had a small army surrounding them at a time like this. Bloch couldn't understand why so little care was being taken by his new bosses. Maybe it was a lack of manpower, or perhaps Tiamat felt herself invulnerable. Higher-ups could be that way sometimes. Nothing to be done about that now though.
Bloch sensed the fall of feet near to his head. He had to make his move now. The sharp edges of his pistol dug into his ribs insistently from within the folds his coat. If he could just grab it, take the intruders by surprise…
He sucked in a long, slow breath that he hoped the intruders wouldn't see, and made his move.
In a single, quick motion, Bloch rolled onto his right side, his right hand slipping inside his jacket as it was freed from beneath him. In that moment he saw one of the two attackers standing over him - a big guy dressed in big work boots and a long leather jacket. The attacker barked something unintelligible as Bloch pulled his weapon free and tried to raise a chunky, chrome-looking number that had been hanging loose at his side, but it was already too late.
Bloch took his shot.
The big man spun away with the force of the bullet, only to reveal a second figure, a woman, all big hair and cold expression.
A second shot rang out.
ooo
Pain, white and insistent, screamed up VT's arm and raged across her chest as she dropped onto her backside. She didn't even notice the impact with the unforgiving concrete floor.
"Shit!" she hissed, dropping her gun and clasping her left bicep in her right hand. Another surge of agony gripped her. "Agh! Shit! Bastard!"
She looked across the room to where her assailant lay. Only as she took in the body, lying face up in an expanding puddle of blood, did it register that there had been a second shot fired, that she'd heard it but had been too preoccupied with the aftermath of the first to worry that it might have been aimed at her.
"Shit," she said, breathlessly. How many more close calls would there be?
A moment later, Coffee was crouched at her side.
"How bad is it?" she asked calmly.
VT volunteered a string of words which she thought might adequately describe the severity of her wound.
"Like that, is it?" said Coffee. "You need to get that Jacket off."
VT really did not want to take her Jacket off. For one thing she loved this jacket, also she knew that the process of removing it would hurt like a son of a bitch. But Coffee was right, the jacket had to go. It was probably a write off anyway.
"Okay," VT said, trying to get her breathing under control. "Let's just get this over with."
There followed a few seconds of struggling and swearing and pain like nothing VT could remember. Eventually she was free of the garment and had butt-shuffled her way to the wall so she could lean back while Coffee inspected the damage.
"Just a flesh wound," said Coffee.
A patent lie. VT could see the bloody puncture where the bullet had entered just above her elbow. Unable to raise her arm, she would just have to imagine the ragged mess that must be the exit wound.
"Let's get it bound up," said Coffee.
She stood and walked over to VT's coat. She knelt, pulled out a pocket-knife and set to work at the seam that joined the right sleeve at the shoulder. Once the sleeve was free, Coffee pulled it inside out to expose the absorbent lining and came back over.
Another few seconds of pain and cursing and Coffee had bound VT's arm. The trucker could feel the dull throb of her heightened heart rate against the pressure of the makeshift bandage. At least she was still conscious, which meant the bullet hadn't caught an artery. But she was still losing a lot of blood. They would have to get this done and soon.
"You good?" Coffee asked. Her voice had a tightness that VT hadn't heard before. The bounty hunter would have made a terrible doctor.
"I'm good," said VT despite all evidence to the contrary. She raised herself to her feet and wobbled a little once there. "Let's get this over with," she said.
Coffee nodded. "Okay."
The room, cluttered now with syndicate dead, was little more than a concrete box rigged with bar lighting. The only other features were the elevator doors where VT and Coffee had entered, and an identical set of doors opposite. A display above the second set of doors appeared to be a countdown, marking off the seconds until the car arrived at the dock. Hopefully there wouldn't be anyone on board.
"Uh, VT," said Coffee.
VT turned to her partner. "What?"
Coffee was looking back towards the elevator. "I think we have a problem."
VT looked at the elevator and found herself in immediate agreement. The display above the doors showed an upward facing arrow. In the confusion of the fight and what had followed, they had failed to notice that the elevator had departed for a lower floor. Now it was on its way back and would most probably be carrying reinforcements for Tiamat's fallen guards.
VT looked back at the car display. It read ten seconds, nine, eight.
"Shit," said VT. She glanced back at the other door. "Coffee, when this car gets here, you have to take it. I'll hold off whoever is on the way up."
"The hell you will," said Coffee.
"There's no time to argue," said VT. "I'm too beat up to face whatever's over there. You might still have a chance."
There was ping from the near side of the room. The countdown had reached zero.
"And what about afterwards?" asked Coffee over the sound of the airlock engaging. "How the hell am I supposed to get out with our exit plan all shot to hell?"
A good point. There was now virtually no chance of either one of them getting down to the loading bay and stealing a syndicate craft, not after the hullabaloo they'd caused on their way up. Not that their chances had ever been great. The two women looked at one another, each seeing in the grim gaze of the other the truth of their situation, that most likely neither of them would leave this place.
And yet there was no fear, only a distant regret, small and cold in the lengthening shadow of inevitability that fell across the moment. Something in Coffee's eyes suggested she felt it too. Neither one of them was leaving this place, and they both knew it, had known it from the beginning, even as they had planned their assault.
Of course, none of this would have occurred to Andy. To him the universe was one big action movie with him as its in invincible lead. Where his colleagues sensed impending death, he would visualise his closing scene, riding off into the sunset with companions at his sides. Roll credits.
And Lo. Lo had been left out of the of planning process all together, allowed to sit in a dark corner and tinker lest the finer details of the plan should cause him to die of fright. But VT and Coffee had known, known where it all would lead and yet, here they were anyway, each for reasons that neither one could easily express but no less real for it. All of this, the two women exchanged in that one, long look.
"You'll think of something," VT said, at length. "Now get ready."
The locking mechanism clanked home.
VT turned to face the elevator doors head on and trusted that Coffee would do the same for the car doors. She might not be long for this dusty red world, but at the very least she wouldn't be shot in the back like a chump.
She heard the doors of the car part.
"Clear," said Coffee, just as the display above the elevator signalled its arrival.
The ping of the elevator was a strangely cheerful sound as death knells went, VT thought. It was the sort of silly irony that used to so tickle Ural. She smiled sadly at the thought that she may soon get to tell him all about this moment, to hear him laugh and cheer and slap the table as she regaled him with tales of her final adventure in bounty hunting.
"Good luck," said VT.
"You too," said Coffee.
A crack sliver of light opened between the elevator doors. And then, suddenly, VT was stumbling backwards, a fierce pressure against her chest. She tripped and fell to the floor for a second time, hitting the deck in a burst of pain.
She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked up to find that she was sitting on the floor of the car with Coffee standing just the other side of the door, her back turned. The door was closing.
She'd pushed her in. Coffee had pushed her in!
VT tried to get to her feet. "You stupid, crazy-aagh!" In her haste VT had put her weight on her damaged arm. She collapsed onto her back in agony.
The bounty hunter slowly disappeared behind the car doors.
"Hey there, boys," VT heard her say.
There was shouting. And then gun fire. And then the doors were closed. A couple of shots struck the doors with a sound like someone kicking a full trash can before the airlock disengaged, and VT heard no more of what went on in the car dock.
"Crazy bitch," VT rasped as she struggled to her feet.
She wondered if Coffee thought she'd saved her life just now. Probably she had prolonged it, but not by much.
"Looks like this is it," she said to herself, turning to face the doors on the opposite side of the car.
She knew she wouldn't be coming back from this, but at this point she wondered if she would even make it to the end of the car ride. The pain in her arm had been replaced with a dull burning sensation, and the edges of her vision had begun to blur.
The car shuddered as it gained speed. VT, already unsteady on her feet, had to brace herself against the wall.
"Christ," she muttered. "I hope the guys are doing better than we are."
ooo
Lo was not doing well at all. He and Andy had just returned to the bridge having spent thirty interminable minutes disengaging airlocks all around the ship, leaving them unlocked for the orbital police to enter when they were ready. Lo's panic levels had crept up gradually throughout the process, spiking each time he heard the clunk of a deadlock opening, leaving only a magnetic seal in place that could be disengaged from a panel on the exterior of the hull.
Andy, as Lo had come to expect, had shown no anxiety at all. In fact, he'd whistled to himself the whole time as they'd marched and drifted from one airlock to the next, as if he were performing some light chore rather than granting access to their eventual killers. Every now and again, an old western motif would intrude into Andy's otherwise tuneless whistle, as it often did his speech. There were moments when Lo had genuinely considered telling Andy to shut the hell up. And he'd never told anyone to shut the hell up. Especially not someone that much taller than him. His cowardice had won out, thank goodness, though Lo did promise himself that if he was going die - and at this stage it seemed very likely that he would - he would first make it very clear to Andy just whose fault it was.
Andy pulled himself up to the pilot's position and began to fiddle with the hangar door controls, his face a mask of concentration. The samurai groped fruitlessly at the control panel for some seconds, his brow sinking deeper into a frown with each failed attempt to open the doors. It was like watching a three-year-old trying to work out how to get the triangle peg into the star-shaped hole.
"Ah-ha," Andy said at length, and smiled with satisfaction as the hull rumbled with the sound of the hangar door rising.
He pushed himself down to the deck and stumped over to the communications console. He tapped the control and leaned down needlessly close to the mic.
"Hello, police officers," said Andy, cheerfully. "All of the doors are open. Come on in."
"Bebop," the police officer replied. "You are to remain on the bridge until you can be taken into custody. Failure to comply with instructions will be interpreted as resisting-"
"Resisting arrest, lethal force, yadda yadda. Yes, we got it all the first time."
Lo blanched at Andy's tone. The officer on the other end of the line might have been corrupt, but he was still a police officer!
The officer growled something under his breath. Lo imagined it was something about how much he would enjoy shooting out their kneecaps.
"Stay where you are," he said, and clicked off before Andy could annoy him any further.
"So, now what?" asked Lo.
"Now," Andy said, and left a long, dramatic pause before adding, "We wait."
"Wait for what?" asked Lo.
A beep sounded from the pilot's console.
Andy frowned and scratched his head. "Huh. That didn't take long."
There was another beep, and then another. Before long the console was emitting a near continuous trill, like the cardboard box full of canaries that weird pet store lady kept outside her store across the street from Lo's shop. This sound was almost as maddening and far more frightening, but Andy seemed unconcerned by this latest development. In fact he seemed rather pleased.
"What?" asked Lo, frantically. "What is that?" He flapped across the bridge towards the pilot console.
"You don't know?" said Andy. "Oh right, you were playing with your doodad when we planned this part."
"What part?" said Lo as he pulled himself up to the pilot's position. "What are you talking a-"
The radar display was alive with points of light, dozens of them, sweeping from planet side towards the ship. There were far too many of them for it to be just the returning bounty hunters.
Lo tried to speak. All that came out was a thin wheeze.
The communication console joined the crescendo of beeps, and Andy answered.
"Bebop," said the police officer. "We have multiple contacts. Call them off, now!"
"Call them off?" said Andy. "I'm sorry, officer. I don't follow."
"Call off your ships, Bebop. Call them off or we will open fire."
"But officer, those can't be our ships." Andy was the very voice of innocence. "There are way too many for them to be our ships."
"Bebop, call off… damn it!"
The call ended. Through the window Lo could see several of the police ships lurch into motion. Their movements were sluggish, the ships' engines cold in preparation to board the Bebop. And then, as Lo watched, a searing-white line scythed through one of the police cruisers. It lurched to the right and erupted in a short-lived ball of orange and red flame. For a few seconds, chunks of the broken craft tumbled silently from orbit, trailing small fragments that sparked in the sunlight.
And then, chaos.
A handful of mismatched ships, racing across the black backdrop of space, swept by among the almost static police squadron. A few of the cruisers opened fire on the passing ships, but the bounty hunter craft were moving too fast and were gone before the police could get a bead.
All of the visible police ships were in motion now. Some turned to follow the bounty hunters into a higher orbit while others milled about in apparent confusion, their indecision suggesting that the destroyed ship may have been the squadron leader.
Just as it seemed that the Orbital Police might regroup and refocus their attention on the Bebop, a storm of sleek, dark ships streaked into view. Dozens of small craft raced across the black rectangle of the window, a hail of military-green darts aimed in the direction that the bounty hunters had fled.
Somewhere beneath the maelstrom of panic that wracked Lo's conscious mind, he began to piece together a picture of what had happened. The bounty hunters had attacked the syndicate base, bloodied the Reds' noses and stung them into a vengeful pursuit. Such was the fervour of the riled mobsters that they had been oblivious to the presence of the Bebop and the police.
The police, on the other hand, had not been at all oblivious. In fact, they too must have felt some measure of panic as a couple of the police cruisers opened fire on the passing syndicate ships, even though they were presumably on the same side. One of the police ships scored a lucky hit, if lucky was even the right word, and a syndicate fighter tumbled out of view, trailing sparks, air and debris from its shredded hull.
If it was chaos before, what followed was all out carnage.
The syndicate pilots, already furious from their humiliation at the hands of the bounty hunters, swung about and went weapons free on the Orbital Police. By now the police were all moving, their engines warm and their pilots alive to threats all around. The view through the window was soon a tracery of incendiary rounds, dog-fighting ships and burning shrapnel.
"Wow," said Andy. "That escalated really quickly."
ooo
The car ride was taking forever. Or so it seemed to VT. It was always going to take a while to reach the receiver room dock; it was the better part of five kilometres from the edge of the dish to its centre after all. But between the angry throb of her arm and the bland surroundings of the cable car, it felt as if she'd been in transit for an age.
VT did her best to keep her mind blank. Every thought she formed would eventually wander onto her present condition, her ruined arm and the intermittent blurring of her vision, or to whatever fate had befallen Coffee. At least she was mercifully in the dark on that last point, her stolen syndicate earpiece having been lost during the debacle in the car room. She tried also not to think of what might greet her when the car finally docked, and the doors slid back. Not that it was guaranteed she would even reach the dock. She made it evens that the car would be shot clean off the cables the moment it filtered through to Tiamat that an intruder was on the way over.
She winced. There was another thought she would need to suppress.
VT had considered sitting down on the floor and propping herself against the wall to conserve her strength, but had decided against, concluding that if she sat down, she probably wouldn't be able to stand up again. It wouldn't do to face off against the personal guard of the system's most powerful kingpin while planted on her ass. So, VT stood, good shoulder braced against the wall, and tried not to topple over from blood loss before reaching her destination.
The car rocked. The journey continued. It was actually kind of warm in the little cable car. Quite pleasant, in fact. The whir of the motor low, soothing, like the croon of Ural's voice as he sang to himself on those long hauls across the asteroid belt, Victoria drowsing in the passenger seat. Maybe a little nap-
A chime sounded loud and urgent through the confines of the car, bringing VT back to reality with a jolt. Alarmed to find that she had begun to slide down the wall, VT steadied herself just as a voice rang from a small speaker couched discretely in one corner of the room.
"Hello-uh, I mean, attention everyone," said the voice, it's high, nervous tenor familiar despite the tinny quality of the sound.
VT grinned. "Theresa. I'll be damned."
There was a rumble as Theresa adjusted the mic. Then, more clearly: "Attention everyone. The observatory is under attack. I repeat, the observatory is under attack. Please make your way to the nearest lifeboat in an orderly manner, following the green lines painted on the walls. Do not take any personal belongings and remember to be considerate of your fellow scientists. And, um, syndicate guys, I guess. Thank you for your cooperation."
The channel closed with a clunk, followed by a brief but excruciatingly loud whistle that VT assumed meant Theresa had spiked the PA system.
"Clever girl," VT muttered. She hoped that would be enough to persuade the remaining syndicate thugs to abandon ship, and more importantly, that they would allow the staff of the facility to do the same. With any luck, so much syndicate manpower would have been diverted to fighting the bounty hunters that there would not be enough left to prevent the civilian personnel from leaving.
VT smiled to herself. That tearful little intern might just have saved an old trucker's soul.
The car shuddered, the brakes grasping at the line as it approached the centre of the array. VT levered herself upright until she was standing free of the wall. She swayed a little, her hand cannon heavier than usual in her good hand. The car shook once more, then shuddered for the last time as it docked with the receiver. For a moment, all was still.
"Alright," VT breathed, and hefted her weapon so that its muzzle was pointed straight at the split in the door. "Show time."
A thump. A hiss. The doors opened.
VT had expected face a thicket of syndicate guns, ready to chew her to pieces before she could set foot outside the car, and she wasn't disappointed. three goons, black-jacketed and grim-faced, stood in the hall beyond, weapons trained squarely on the trucker's head.
Belatedly VT tried to remember if she had reloaded her own gun before brandishing it so defiantly.
She exhaled slowly. Wouldn't matter in a second anyway. She wholly expected the next, and last, sound she heard to be a chorus of pistol reports. Instead, "Lower you weapon."
VT couldn't quite tell who had spoken. The goons' features were fuzzy, smeared, like faces seen through the bottom of a shot glass.
"I said, lower your weapon."
VT marvelled that she still wasn't dead. She was just beginning to believe that she might be able to bluff her way out of the standoff when, quite without her permission, her weapon began to lower itself. VT watched impotently as her good arm traced a slow, ninety-degree arch until it hung at her side, at which point her gun slipped from between slack fingers and clattered to the ground.
"Damn it," she said, and looked up at her captors with an apologetic smile. She'd have shrugged if she had the strength.
The thug in the middle took a step forward. "Come with me."
The syndicate man's face swam in and out of focus. He was dark-haired with an expression that suggested he took himself way too seriously. VT, remembering Von De Oniyate's preposterous cover story for his activities here, grinned despite herself and said, "Take me to your leader."
A goon moved up to flank her, another ducked forwards and scooped up her weapon. It was with a pang of regret that the trucker watched her old hand cannon disappear inside the gangster's coat. A moment later, she was being led forwards by her good arm, guided into the room beyond the car - a blood red box that smelled like the back of a hippy's van. Her escorts were shifting shadows in her peripheral vision. They marched her up to a sliding door, a rice paper deal like one might find in a low-end noodle joint. The doors slid aside, and VT was thrust into an even bigger, gaudier room where the stink of incense alone was almost enough to bring her to her knees.
Red. Everywhere red. Flickering like the fires of hell.
VT shook her head, trying to rattle up whatever sense she had left. Squinting in the dim light, she found herself peering at a gauze curtain, behind which sat three indistinct shapes, raised slightly from the rug-scattered floor. More distinct were the four cowled bodyguards that stood motionless, two at either end of the curtain.
"Step forward child. Where we can see you." A voice, brittle and cold, like cat ice.
VT lacked the strength to do anything but obey. She took a faltering step forward, registering on some level that her escort was gone.
"Ah yes," said the voice, as if those few extra inches had brought the trucker into plane sight. "We foresaw your coming. It is as prophesied."
VT smiled. "Prophesied, huh? You'll forgive me if I don't act all impressed. We did make kind of a lot o' noise on the way over here."
"You are wounded, child," said a second voice, a little softer than the first.
VT's eyebrows jumped. "Wounded?" she said. Then she remembered the seeping hole in her arm. "Oh, this?" she glanced down at the useless limb. "Eh, it's just a scratch."
"It is no more than you deserve," said a third voice, harsh like the grinding of old stones. "You should not have come here."
"Probably not," said VT. She wobbled but kept her feet. "But here I am. Tiamat, right?"
A pause, probably for dramatic effect.
"We are she," said the first voice.
VT frowned at the odd use of pronouns. "Uh-huh. Okay, well, uh, Tiamat," She looked along the line of figures, trying to decide which she should address. She settled on the one in the middle. "Any chance of you guys calling off this whole coup thing?"
"A coup," said the soft voice with a trace of dusty amusement. "Is that what you believe this is, child?"
The trucker moved to scratch beneath the rim of her cap, but found she lacked the strength. "Sorry, I'm a little out of sorts. Is that a trick question?"
"This," said the harsh voice, "is no trick. It is the ultimate realisation of the Great Prophesy. The rebirth of the Red Dragons in blood and glory." Another dramatic pause. "Your blood."
VT glanced at her grisly injury. "My blood, huh? Talk about painting targets around your arrows." VT's vision had begun to swim more severely. "Listen," she said. "I think I might be on the clock here. Are you guys gonna stop this takeover bullshit or not?"
The softer voice chuckled. A menacing, mirthless sound. "You would make demands of us, child?"
"From a position of such weakness?" said Brittle-voice.
"What can I tell ya," said VT. "I was planning to just shoot you, but…"
"Do not trouble yourself, child." The soft voice spoke with a compassion that chilled more than the blood loss. "You were always destined to fail."
"The prophesy," said Brittle-voice, "Will not be denied."
"'And lo,'" Harsh-Voice spoke up, "'did the serpent writhe beneath the sands, stirred by the shedding-'."
"O for Chrissake," VT barked. This shit was getting old. "I've wasted the last couple of weeks listening to nonsense from one bunch of lunatics. I didn't get my ass shot up just so I could do it all over again."
Another silence. The trucker suspected this one was not intended to ratchet up the tension.
Harsh-voice rasped, "You would dare to speak-"
"You can drop the act, ladies," said VT. She was sick of indulging this nonsense. She was damned if she was going to punch out before the end of this ridiculous performance. "I know what's going on here, and I know you are not the ones calling the shots."
"We are Tiamat," said one of the voices. There was uncertainty there now. "We are the only-"
"Ugh, would you cut the bullshit already!" VT roared, the stress and frustration of the past days and weeks boiling over.
Tiamat was silent. A couple of the guards shifted on the spot, but neither moved to attack. The more she saw and the more she heard, the more confident VT became in her suspicions.
"I know you're not in charge here," she said. She looked around, glancing at the corners of the room, searching for any sign of a camera or listening device. "I know you can hear me," VT said, raising her voice. "There's no way you'd let this little puppet show run without your supervision. Wherever you are, whatever your end game is, I just want you to know one thing." VT wobbled on her feet. "You owe me a goddamn antenna!"
Silence. No one had anything to say to that. VT began to wonder if maybe the Big Bad couldn't hear her after all. Maybe she'd called it all wrong. Maybe she wasn't unravelling some elaborate ruse and was instead ranting incoherently at a group of bemused gangsters as she bled out on their nice carpet.
No, her gut said she was right. She could ignore a lot, but VT had never been able to ignore her instincts.
"You are wounded, child," one of the voices said weakly. "You do not know-"
"You know," she said, ignoring Tiamat's observation as she addressed the bodyguard surrounding them. "You guys would have kittens if you knew who you were really working for."
A voice, crisp and assured, cut through the quiet of the receiver room. "They know exactly who they are working for."
One of the bodyguards, standing to the left of the dais, pushed back their cowl to reveal the grim, strong-featured face of Kathryn Tatopoulos.