I stood, then reached back and supported myself on the chair. “He’ll know he hasn’t heard from Teyte, and this Carlson will likely let him know he’s not heard from Oates. He’ll know something is up. He’s going to feel pressure no matter what we do.”
“Well, Carlson’s on ice, so that’s not a problem.” Niemeyer pointed at Teyte’s squawker. “If you want to grab that and turn it off, people will leave messages, which will buy us some time. He won’t know Teyte is gone for a bit yet.”
I did as he suggested, killing the squawker. “Okay, so this pulls a little bit of pressure off him, but not enough because bigger trouble is going to come rolling down the line and fast. Bernard has Emblyn, and Emblyn isn’t going to stand for that.”
Niemeyer lifted the helmet from his armor and tucked it under his right arm. “He’s limited in what he can do, though. Lawyers will wrangle, but treason isn’t an offense that will allow him to get out of jail. He’s stuck.”
“With him, it’s going to be less actually being in jail than it will be his being in Bernard’s power. I imagine he’ll have his people unleash waves of terror attacks, and the real deal this time. Lots of people will die, and I’d not put it past him to have Catford spring him from jail.”
The colonel looked past me toward the apartment’s window. In the distance somewhere was the Capital District holding facility. “A battle to get him free would cause so much damage…”
“Agreed, so we can’t let that happen.” I smiled. “We won’t.”
Janella’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking, Sam?”
“Colonel, Public Safety arrested Emblyn, so he’s nominally in your control, right? You could move him if you thought there was a safety issue, couldn’t you?”
The big man slowly nodded. “It would take a little doing, but it could be done.”
“Good. We know they’ll be coming for him one way or another, so we have to minimize collateral damage. I have an idea about how to do that and, just perhaps, get everyone and everything right where we want it.” I glanced at Janella. “Did you bring a ride?”
“Two, and a delivery system.”
“Two’s not much, but we might let them rip each other up for a bit before we have to intervene.”
Niemeyer frowned. “I thought you said you’re going to minimize collateral damage. Letting Emblyn’s people chew on the militia and Bernard’s private corps doesn’t sound like it will stop them from laying waste to Basalt.”
“Oh, the battle will be sloppy, so we’ll just have to get them to fight it in a place where neatness doesn’t count.” I gave him a smile. “In a tourist book on Basalt I ran across a mention of a place that I think would be perfect: Obsidian Island.”
Janella’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but Niemeyer just smiled. “Yeah, that will work perfectly. And, you know what? I think I might just be able to help you even the odds.”
Obsidian Island is one of those weird, storied places that every world has. They are just tailor-made to be haunted, absent hideous murders being carried out inside or battles fought around them. The place’s complete and utter isolation helps, likewise the fact that virtually no one visits and only the bravest of hearts spend the night.
And those who do tell alarming tales of the experience.
Sure, it’s likely ninety-nine percent tourist hype, promoted by a service that for five hundred stones would run you out there and, for three times as much, arrange for a night’s stay. Not the sort of rates or place that would bring any but the most weird from off-world to visit.
Technically speaking, it’s not an island and isn’t made of obsidian. Located south and west of Manville, in the heart of a huge rain forest preserve, Obsidian Island is a barren platform of rock in the heart of a small, black-water lake reputed to be the home of monsters. A small curved causeway connects the island to the shore, though the roadway is overgrown with weeds. The shore is also rocky and provides a dark crescent between the lake and the rain forest. While some hearty plants have tried to colonize the rock, their efforts are several centuries shy of success.
The island itself boasts a huge castle made of basalt and trimmed in obsidian. While styled after Terran medieval fortresses, this one has none of the weathering. The two centuries that have passed since its construction have not been especially kind to it, but those who created it meant for it to withstand anything this side of a nuclear blast. Unlike the knights of yore, however, they were not concerned with keeping people out as much as they intended to keep one man in.
Tacitus Germayne is not much mentioned in the histories of Basalt, and really is little more than a footnote in a grand family’s history. The second son of the ruling count, he just was never quite right. Stories of petty cruelties were hushed up, payments were made, witnesses suppressed. It’s hard to judge what the family was thinking at the time, but realizing that a child of yours has grown into a homicidal sociopath can’t be easy to accept. They denied it and, while they got help for him, when that failed they just hired more and more.
Tacitus had developed an unhealthy affection for Gilles de Rais, a French nobleman and friend of Joan of Arc. De Rais, who had a nearly inexhaustible treasury and enough power that governmental forces were unable to stop him, delved into demonology. He murdered countless boys—peasants by and large, so as to escape notice—and it was not until he defied both the Church and the Crown that societal forces combined to crush him.
Tacitus only notched up five victims before he was caught. He was tried and convicted in two cases of murder and in the other three was judged innocent by reason of mental defect. The net result was that he was to be institutionalized until cured, then his consecutive life sentences for the other murders would go into effect. He would never walk free.
His family, however, still loved him and created for him Obsidian Island. They paid for its construction themselves, then ceded it to the government, where it was registered as both a mental institution for the criminally insane and a penitentiary. It is said that Tacitus took to wearing the same sort of clothes Gilles de Rais did: fabulous robes of scarlet and gold. He would only speak ancient French and would use no commercially produced product. He fled into his psychosis completely and died there at the age of 108 after seventy-five years of incarceration.
Niemeyer did a great job of convincing Bernard’s people that moving Emblyn to Obsidian Island—which technically was still a prison—was just the thing to do. Not only did it isolate him from communications, but his imprisonment there would cast him as the new Tacitus. This would be particularly damning in the court of public opinion, or so Bernard’s people were led to conclude. Niemeyer added that the lack of distractions would make it easier for his people to fend off attackers, provided, of course, they weren’t coming in ’Mechs.
He was told, in no uncertain terms, that would not be a problem.
Bernard immediately deployed a mixed company of Basalt Militia and a light lance of his private security troops to the Obsidian Island area. This was a tactical error, since he knew that FfW commanded a much larger force. To a certain extent, however, it was forced on him, because if he pulled all his resources from Manville, FfW would have a field day tearing the city apart and he’d be left looking like a fool.
Things got coordinated pretty well so that FfW wouldn’t hit too early. Niemeyer announced that, “for his safety,” Aldrington Emblyn would be moved to Obsidian Island very soon. He further avowed that media would be allowed to cover the transfer, but on a pool feed basis. The media fought over who would actually be the pool reporters, and backed things up by positioning themselves all over the area of the jail to catch things. That just turned the jail into a chaotic arena where no commander would want to put troops.