05 - The Lie At the End of the World
A QUICK WORD OF INTRODUCTION
Welcome to The Winter Palace. If you’re new to this free, serialized sci-fi fantasy novel, click here to start at the beginning.
So where’re we at in our story?
Carmen, the freedom-fighting protagonist of our story, has kidnapped The Red Duke, the leader of the un-free world, from the front in Siberia. She what’s left of her team have escaped the battlefront in a rescue gyrocopter—but they need to get out of enemy territory.
The Lie at the End of the World
Carmen got into character.
She stared at the ground, ran her hand over the Walther PPK pistol at her hip, thought about the war and all the reasons she had to hate the Red Duke. Below them, the ground rushed by—snow-capped pine trees, a blur of white and black.
Buzzcut turned on a fire-heater, causing a rush of warm air. He removed his mask; the others followed. The ride was loud and windy; it was a terrible environment to communicate. For several minutes, no one tried. All eyes were on the Red Duke: He was seat-belted in, unconscious, cuffed at the hands and ankles, his black hair flapping in the wind.
The red-headed woman—intense, pale, green-eyed—nodded to Arthur, the young man. Arthur stuffed his camera in an open knapsack, then removed a plastic bag filled with pharmaceutical bottles. He stood, groped along the perimeter of the canoe, then fell awkwardly into Carmen's lap. She nudged him up with a kneecap to his sternum. He made his way over to the Duke, then collapsed at his knees.
"Careful!" the redhead shouted.
Arthur stuck a needle into the Duke's arm, missed the vein, and tried again.
This is the Duke’s day for stabbings, Carmen thought.
On his second try, Arthur drew blood, then squirted a few drops onto a white strip. He studied it, looked at the redhead, and nodded.
"It's him!" he shouted.
Redhead nodded back, gritted her teeth, pointed at Arthur's knapsack. Get the camera back out.
A scream from outside the aircraft: it came from a half-dozen F-86 Sabre jet fighters, probably the same ones that had struck the airbase.
Escorts, Carmen thought.
The jets couldn't fly as slowly as the gyrocopter, so they circled around the A-14 instead.
Redhead waved at Carmen. ”Hey! How long will that knockout gas last?"
Carmen held up two fingers.
The other woman looked at the Duke, laughed to herself giddily, then shouted something at Carmen.
“What?"
Redhead leaned forward.
"I said, I'm Playwright!"
Carmen didn't even try to hide her surprise. A woman? How? A few years ago, during the second Great War, women had built aircraft in the factories, worked as decoders or nurses. Now, during the third War, women were becoming even more prominent—but not leaders during wartime.
"Wait until we land," Playwright said to Carmen.
"What?"
"Wait until we land!”
Carmen got the message, nodded, sat back in her seat, felt the bulge of the pistol in her pocket.
Okay—so I wait.
Arthur already had his camera out, rotated its tri-lens barrel, and got a wide panning shot of the canoe. The boy hadn’t bothered to put a bandage on the Duke's arm: the leader of the un-free world just sat there and bled.
Carmen opened the pocket flap and gripped the pistol.
Get into character.
Every bullet had a name.
This bullet was called Stewart Ballantine. Carmen had named it after an old boyfriend.
An hour and a half later, they touched down. The A-14 bounced twice, then braked hard. It was the first time Carmen had landed in an open-canoe gyro, and it was terrible; she felt like someone had taped her to the front end of a sledgehammer and started swinging.
When the ‘copter came to a stop, she looked at the Duke with disdain: Arthur had put brace around his neck to prevent it from breaking when the aircraft’s landing gear hit the dirt.
They disembarked in a small open field, only a few hundred feet wide, where a passenger chopper waited for them. A platoon of Marines and a dozen mechs formed a perimeter around the gyro, and the Sabre jets circled overhead. The din was overwhelming; no one talked until they were inside the second transport.
Once she was up the entrance ramp, Carmen felt like she'd entered another planet: the helicopter’s interior was heated, carpeted, furnished like a nobleman's living quarters. Silver-edged mirrors and decor peppered the walls. A wooden desk extended from the cabin's left side; that’s where Playwright sat. It was opulent aside from the team’s kits looking like waste from a dystopian world.
And the Duke’s unconscious body sprawled on the cabin floor like a snow angel.
The helicopter was loud, but not so much that they couldn't talk. Carmen appreciated the relative quiet.
Playwright looked at Carmen. "Is there a way to wake him up faster?"
Carmen shrugged. “Throw water on his face?"
Playwright smirked, then signaled to a uniformed attendant who poured a glass carafe of tomato juice on the Duke.
"She said ice water, you moron," Playwright said. "Are you going to clean my carpet?"
"Yes, ma'am," the attendant said, avoiding eye contact.
The Duke stirred.
"Baker, how long before we're out of danger?" Playwright asked.
"Three hours,” the middle-aged man said. His voice was erudite, but he spoke rapidly, like he was from Manhattan or something. Strangely, he wore cologne, which Carmen hadn’t smelled for years.
Playwright turned to Carmen and Michael. "There's a power struggle going on within the Duke's administration. If they can guarantee that the Duke is dead, then Lord Glauser can declare him so and assume power. All that to say that the Glaive might still shoot us down. Honestly, I’m surprised they haven't already."
“Don’t be cynical, Playwright,” Baker said. “We don’t have time for it.”
A desk drawer opened; a green handkerchief emerged. Playwright wiped the Duke's face, then slapped him. The Red Duke grunted.
"Wake up. Wake up, Salvador."
The Duke convulsed, sat up, and put his head in his hands.
"Salvador Innes," Playwright said, "You're a prisoner of the United States of America. Open your eyes; I want you to see this."
The Duke grunted. "Where am I?"
"Arthur, start filming," Playwright said. The camera whirred to life like a miniature jackhammer. Playwright leaned over a tape recorder on her desk, hit a button, then looked at Carmen and said, “Get ready.”
Carmen reached into her pocket and gripped her handgun.
Stewart Ballantine—I never liked that guy.
Arthur’s camera started rolling.
Playwright turned back to the Duke and repeated, "Salvador Innes, the Red Duke, you're now a prisoner of the United States of America."
Carmen stood up.
"I'm a prisoner of no one," the Duke said. His accent was Eastern European. ”I was a prisoner of the Democratics far too long. How dare you!"
His knees parted. He blinked, saw Carmen's face.
"You," the Duke said to Carmen, his voice a bucket of gravel. "You are an eloquent little tripe. You called me, ‘Antichrist.'"
Carmen smirked.
Every bullet has a name. This bullet’s name is Stewart Ballantine.
Playwright looked from Arthur to Carmen—awkwardly. The redhead was a terrible actress. "I hereby arrest you in the name of—"
Time to perform, Carmen thought.
"Murdererrrrrrr!" she shrieked long and loud. Everyone in the room jumped—except Salvador Inness, who laughed.
"You called me, ‘Antichrist,’” he said to her. “You said you were the voice of the weeping millions."
Stewart was a fool.
"I am the voice of the weeping millions!” Carmen shouted again. "I am the Sword of God brought down to bear on the wickedness of nations. Behold the Great White Throne, the breath of fire that consumes Babylon, the city of Iniquity!"
"Get her! She's crazy!" Playwright said, her body stiff, her performance weak.
Carmen pulled the pistol from her pocket and fired it at the Duke's heart.
Playwright screamed.
"Carmen!" Michael dove at Carmen, knocking her to the ground.
As Carmen fell, she smiled.
Stewart Ballantine was an idiot, full of white chalk and hot air, a total blank—like the bullet I just fired.
And that’s how Carmen and Playwright wrote themselves into history. First, they kidnapped the Red Duke.
Then, they faked his murder.
— — —
Hi all, this is a chapter from a novel I’m serializing online called, The Winter Palace. If you like it, I hope you’ll subscribe. I’ll post a chapter a week.
In the meantime, I’ve got other books for sale on Amazon, including the Christian thriller Liberator. Check it out!
Also, here’s my site: JPBurten.com
Have a great day, and see you next week.