Thornfalcon (The ARC Legacy Book 1) Page 2

  With a casual deliberateness, Samantha stood. While not as tall as Lucas, she made a much tougher target when on her feet. “Funny. I remember you chanting the rite of summoning. What's the matter, Lucas? Finally see something you didn't like?”

  “Tracey ran straight into the sea. She kept running, right off the cliffs back there.” Lucas threw his hand up behind him. “The rest of them. My followers. Gone. What did you make them see? Tracey lost her mind. This is your fault.”

  Samantha followed his hand. Spume sprayed up as waves hit the rocks beyond, specks moistening her face. “This shouldn't have happened to her, Lucas. You know the risk involved. People see what they see. This isn't some parlour trick, some childish fantasy.”

  He stepped into her space and slapped her hard across the cheek.

  She fell onto the sand, the world reeling around her. She tasted the coppery salt of blood, as Lucas stood over her, gloating.

  “The risk is now your responsibility. You fail me again and you … unhnnn…”

  Lucas collapsed to the ground, the twin electrodes of a Taser protruded from his chest. As he spasmed, Samantha rolled to avoid contact, finding herself looking at a pair of black leather combat boots. She shook her head. Busted.

  “It comes to something when ARC sends the head of Global Security out to look for a mere girl.”

  John Wolverton reached down, offering a hand up. “You were never a mere girl, Sammy. Playtime's done. You're overdue to meet your mother.”

  Chapter Two

  They're always watching me. Will I ever be alone? Samantha wondered, reaching for Wolverton's outstretched hand and pulling herself up, hand being crushed in an iron grip.

  Although Past sixty, Wolverton retained a commanding presence, a giant bear of a man. While those around him expected suits and formality, cargo shorts and tank tops for him were de rigueur, the tattoos on his arms and legs still bright despite age. He was a fighter with muscles once extensive, now lean and tight. It seemed he would always be strong, never going to fat. Bald with a bushy beard that young Samantha had tugged many times over the years, he was a father figure to her, continually training and teaching her. She had learned to fly under his tutelage, and when she had crossed swords with her mother, John had patience for her, even if he did not agree with her actions. She confided in him, and he held her secrets sacrosanct. He was the only father she'd had, the only man of integrity around that had given her his time with no expectations.

  Behind him, several black-clad ARC operatives waited, three aiming machine guns in the direction of the remaining stragglers. The fourth retrieved the taser from the still-prone Lucas, now squawking as the electrodes were jerked from his chest.

  “I'm only worth four?” Samantha asked, nodding in the direction of the operatives. What she didn't say was that she would have run had there been fewer commandos.

  “Only room for you, me, and four in the boat.”

  Samantha grinned, nodding to Lucas and the two girls who lingered, “Maybe they can get back the way we came. I did all the navigation, anyway.”

  Leading the small team to the black speedboat moored against the volcanic outcrop, Samantha jumped in without waiting for assistance. She was a capable woman despite her outward faults, not waiting for others to pass sentence on her actions, nor caring whether they did if she felt she was right. When their opinion didn't matter to her, she dismissed them out of hand. The only person who persisted in making judgement was her mother.

  As John gunned the throttle of the speedboat, seagulls shrieked in protest at the noise from the engine and the air traffic in the distance as they swirled above. Samantha stared at the superstructure of Hunters Ridge looming and expanding on the horizon. Several miles out in the Adriatic, the only way in or out was by air or sea. Planes were taking off from the runway amid ships; the celebrations concluded. Samantha shifted her balance as the boat skipped over the surface of the water.

  “What does she want this time?” She sounded weary and she knew it.

  Wolverton scanned the water between Brusnik and the nearby superstructure. One distant tanker from the cargo port of Trieja, the only port allowed to send traffic to the ARC project, was preparing to dock.

  “She worries about you, Sammy. She might not show it but your stunts scare her. You girls are the only link to your father she has left.”

  “It's not like she had many to begin with,” Samantha retorted. She knew that her mother's primary concern was not for her; her mother's demands were always about what she needed or wanted.

  Wolverton didn't answer.

  They passed under the outer edge of the superstructure. Massive concrete supports plunged into the water around them like the legs of some squatting monstrosity resting on the bedrock. Above, the control centre, a building the size of a football stadium, rotated on its mechanical base. Her mother had said, “The view of the Adriatic is too good to waste on a runway and a launchpad.”

  Wolverton eased the boat to into a dock built inside one of the supports lit with industrial lighting. It seemed alien in contrast to the beautiful sunset. The boat bobbed as it was tied off and as soon as it was secured, Samantha jumped onto the bolted walkway which stretched from pillar to pillar. She watched the waves lap through the honeycombed metal. “Come on then, old man,” she taunted her guide and protector.

  Wolverton snorted and pulled himself up behind her. “Not too old to put you in your place, young lady.”

  They followed the walkway up as it spiralled around the inside of the structure until they came to a pair of doors. Two operatives with machine guns, loosely held, manned the entrance. They nodded to Wolverton and opened the doors.

  To Samantha, it seemed an imposing route for any would-be assailant, but whatever. She peered over the railing at the lapping water and the blue-green algae a hundred feet below while John summoned the lift, the metal cold and unyielding. Anybody who might try to gain entrance from the sea would surely fail. This wasn't just a technological miracle; it was a fortress.

  A bleep and the lift door opened, as John tapped her shoulder and nodded. The two guards remained stationary while Samantha passed.

  “Just try to be polite,” John advised as they rose through the superstructure. “She might not show it but your mother only wants the best for you.”

  Samantha scowled. “I'm only doing this out of respect for you. Mother only wants what's best for mother. They have no time for me, nor I for them. The sooner you and the rest accept that, the better we'll all be. I'm going in there and coming straight back out. Mark my words.” It was hard to love and respect someone as distant and cold as her mother, as hard as she had tried, and she hoped John would finally admit she was right; they'd had this conversation too often before. Instead, he huffed and sighed. She saw the frustration flash in his eyes.

  “You're too much like Daniel. The time will come when you have to accept responsibility and grow up.”

  As much as John was right, the comparison to the elderly head of ARC irritated her. She rounded on him. “Grow up? Accept responsibility? John, I'm twenty-three years old. I have a degree in International Diplomacy from MIT. I fly planes and helicopters, too, and I speak three languages. How much more growing up do I need to do? Besides, Daniel Guyomard has no time for protocol and he runs the entire organisation. I don't want any part of this. What more do I have to do to prove this to everybody round here? If Pop were around —”

  “Your father would tell you the exact same damned thing, girl. There's more to this world than your own wants and needs.” John frowned, a tightness around his eyes. He was keeping something from her. “There's a difference between learning skills and applying them, Sammy. It's a skill when you fly a plane for pleasure. It's responsibility to fly one to further someone else's purpose. If you gave your mother a chance instead of flying off the handle every time you meet, you might understand that.”

  “Like Nina has?” As she spoke the words, Samantha knew she was behaving badly. She l
oved her sister, yet resented Nina being so compliant—never questioning, always acceding to their mother's wishes.

  The lift stopped, opening onto the edge of the runway, with a stunning sunset and a brisk wind. The red sun dipped into the sea where Italy lay over the edge of the horizon. She caught her breath as her hair blew back, and despite her scepticism Samantha couldn't help admiring the sheer size of the construction.

  She stepped out onto the hot runway, the day's heat radiating off the asphalt, filling her nose with fumes from the painted markings underfoot. Far above, more seabirds floated on the thermals, out of reach of the air traffic chaos. Instinctively, Samantha ducked as a twin-engine Cessna Citation roared past. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the dazzling runway lights. Apparently, more dignitaries were leaving for home. She imagined them in the executive offices atop the control tower, elegantly dressed, clinking champagne glasses as the rocket lifted skyward.

  The less elite guests were at the other end of the runway, queuing up to board small business planes along with larger carriers and even a private Boeing 747.

  Not speaking, John ushered Samantha across the runway, hurrying her into a waiting transport as ground crew frantically waved them out of the way. The noise was deafening and Samantha held her hands over her ears until they reached the rotating mass of the control tower.

  As she disembarked Samantha said, “I'll try to control myself in there, but I'm making no promises, John.”

  “See that you do, girl,” he growled. “What you did today was deliberately goading your mother, and because of that, ARC itself. There are only so many second chances. You've had more than most.” He pressed the call button, and the glass door slid open for Samantha. “Go on up. There are a lot of important people up there.”

  Stepping into the slowly rotating structure, Samantha watched the old man disappear into the distance. She felt the whirl of the building at the edges, where she could see the rest of the runway, then turned to face the enormity of the cavernous control centre.

  Well of course there would be a lot of important people. On a day like today everybody would want to party. She looked at her reflection in the glass and saw an athletic figure framed in strawberry blonde curls. They'll just have to take me the way I am. This isn't my party, after all.

  The lobby of the control centre was palatial. Tropical plants topped out at three times Samantha's height, nourished by subfloor water and lighting intended to mimic daylight. Glass sculpture, objects d'art, and water features designed by world-renowned artists refracted the light, occasionally creating rainbows. ARC named the lobby the 'Orbiting Tropical Gyratory', but Samantha called it 'Fairyland'. It was all for show, an aspect of ARC the dignitaries appreciated and understood. The politicians and relations experts in the organisation brought everybody here. World leaders mingled with the high and mighty in business and social circles.

  None of that impressed Samantha; she ignored it all. It was an extension of her mother, an attempt at a calming influence. Something the world sorely needed. What mattered stayed out of the public eye and that was where she headed.

  She noted the lingering VIPs gawking at her in alarm or outright disgust as she passed. She smiled and walked past; if a roughed-up rock chick was part of the celebrations, so what?

  She made her way to the central column rising from the middle of the building, this one constructed of opaque glass. Behind the demure door were offices with a receptionist behind a small desk. The middle-aged blonde in a couture black trouser suit waited, scanning the surroundings.

  “Miss Turner,” Samantha nodded and smiled. She certainly had authority issues with her mother but she was perfectly capable of being polite.

  “Miss Scott,” Hollie Turner's face broke into a knowing smile. A long-time acquaintance of Samantha's Aunt Clare, Hollie had been part of ARC for as long as Samantha could remember. Nonetheless, her role was precise—trusted to guard the gate but never enter the realm. “The suits are sure gonna love that get-up.”

  Samantha glanced down once more at her bedraggled state. “Oh this? I just threw it together, last minute. You know how it is.”

  Both women burst out laughing.

  Hollie pressed a button below the desk, then cautioned “Be good in there.”

  “Whose in?”

  “All of them.”

  “What is this? Some sort of court?”

  Hollie shrugged. “No idea, love. I just man the gate.” Hollie waved Samantha on as two panels in the glass cleared and retracted, revealing a doorway.

  Feeling a wave of anxiety, shaking hands and dry mouth, Samantha left the opulence behind and entered a glass corridor walling off a bank of computers. Not a person in the rooms, just unending technology. The brains of the global organisation were in stark contrast to this palace of perfection. It was dark, except for the countless red lights to the waiting elevator, its doors agape. The air was not the usual stale reek, something she and her mother clashed over. At least this issue would not test their wills. No doubt there would be something else.

  She stepped in and instantly the doors clicked shut. Sudden upward force made her legs buckle as it raced up five floors to the top of the control tower. It took only moments but uncertainty loomed large, as did the face of Lucas. He was vengeful and she had deserted him on Brusnik. Security would see him safe but at what cost to her?

  Samantha was still considering the ramifications of her actions when she realised she was not alone. The lift doors opened and a roomful of people turned, staring at her.

  She gazed back at the suited, formal group looking at her with disdainful expressions and gestures. A figure pushed through, separating them with gentle hands. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, the guest of honor is here,” Nina Scott said in a commanding voice.

  The stunned press of bodies parted, leaving Samantha staring at her sister. Only a year apart in age, Nina nonetheless appeared many years older with her severe ponytail of platinum-blond hair, maroon leisure suit, and thick-rimmed glasses. She was the archetypal corporate sort, embracing this world of secrets. Samantha felt little in common with Nina. Other than blood and slim bodies passed on from their mother, they did not share commonality. Samantha's curly hair reflected her wild nature. According to those who had known him, she had too much of her father in her, while Nina was her mother's daughter in every way.

  “There you are,” Nina said, her tone neutral, though to Samantha it rang of disapproval. She was, at least, present. “Been playing on the beach again I hear.”

  “Not that anybody here cares,” Samantha muttered. “Lucas and my friends had to leave.”

  Nina placed an arm about Samantha's shoulders, steering her through the press of the murmuring exclusive. Samantha nodded to Gila Byron, one of the ARC Council with whom she was familiar; An Egyptian with grey streaks in her otherwise black hair and a flawless olive complexion, the ageless Gila and her mother were close friends. The story was that Gila was instrumental in her mothers' rise within the organisation. Other than Gila, Daniel and John Wolverton, the rest of them Samantha barely knew.

  “You might be surprised how much these people care,” Nina countered. “Our family has a legacy here. It's time you embraced it.”

  “Maybe. I always felt this place did nothing for me. There's so much more out there.”

  “Like hunting down strange rituals in Indonesia?”

  “Papua New Guinea,” Samantha corrected her sister on reflex, realising she had just been baited. “At least those people live within their traditions. This organisation erases most beliefs and rituals through technology.”

  Nina's face went flat, a quick flash of anger in her eyes.

  “Really, Samantha—that tired argument again? You know what this place is, what they hope to achieve. You know our history. You are just as much a part of it, whether you acknowledge this or not.”

  “Oh, I understand. I'm not sorry, Nina.”

  Nina led Samantha to the front of the assem
bled group, pressing a button on another set of glass doors.

  “Ladies and gentlemen if you will be so kind as to follow me please?” It smacked of an order rather than a request.

  Samantha followed her sister to the front row of plush blue office chairs lined up in ranks. A woman sat three seats along, facing forward. Her grey streaked brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, exactly in the same way as her daughter's hair. It was easy to tell that Nina followed Eva Scott in habit and mannerism.

  Nina sat next to their mother, squeezing her hand in affirmation. Samantha had no words for the moment, and sat beside her sister, squirming to get comfortable on the thin cushioning. Something was up. Her mother kept her face forward but there was a distinct reddening around her eyes. Samantha leaned forward to comment but Nina forestalled her with a warning glance.

  Whatever your game, now is not the time. Her sister's voice sounded in her head. Nina's gift. Samantha could summon her father's image but Nina could speak directly into the mind. They were both offspring of a demon, but Nina was dealt the best hand.

  The final few sat, John Wolverton closing the doors behind them, and a sombre shaven-headed man with a slight paunch stepped up to the podium. Eyes normally strong and full of confidence were sunken. Swanson Guyomard regarded them all, sparing a hollow glance for Samantha, as he looked each person, one by one, in the eye.

  His voice was subdued as he leaned forward. He cleared his voice and said, “It is with utmost regret that my beloved uncle and head of the ARC Council, Daniel Guyomard, has passed away.”

  Samantha gasped.

  Chapter Three

  It was one of those moments that defined a person: The end of an era.

  A gasp rose as one from the gathered notables. Samantha's own cry of loss was lost among the tide. People began to weep, reaching for handkerchiefs. Many expressed their disbelief. If John Wolverton had been her father, Daniel Guyomard had been her grandfather. A wicked sense of humor akin to her own, he had always been welcoming to her. She had imprinted him as she grew up. His lack of regard for protocol was infectious.