before beginning his speech.
The man in the window of the building kitty-corner to
the senate building knew Tarsonis City wel . He had
lived there until his late teens, viewing the city from a
private terrace of a sixty-three-room mansion.
His name had once been Ark Bennet, son of Errol
Bennet, of the Old Family Bennets, and he knew the
man who was currently in his sights had dinner with
him, played with his two sons. But the man in the
window, who blinked steadily, regulated his breathing
and practical y his heartbeat as his world slowed
down, was no longer that privileged, impossibly
sheltered young man.
As a teenager, straining against the constrictions
placed on him by the circumstances of his birth, he
had slipped out while attending a conference with his
father in the Hal of Reason. Wandering less than a
mile from the safety of the university, Ark Bennet,
scion of one of the Old Families, had been
approached by an attractive young woman, drugged,
and abducted, and had wound up conscripted into the
military. At first, he had been frantic to alert his father
about his situation. He had filed forms and affidavits
again and again. It seemed to have no effect.
And then something happened. He found
something he was good at—very, very good at.
Kil ing.
Ark had been the son of wealth and privilege, but
there had always been something lacking in his life: a
purpose, a direction. Something he could contribute.
And in the military, this almost uncanny gift he had—
he had heard it termed “the X factor,” an ability to
seemingly slow the passage of time as he took his
shots—had
helped
win
battles.
Even
more
importantly, it had saved the lives of friends.
Ironical y, it was when he had ceased to worry or
wonder if he would ever have a chance to go home
that two men from the Military Security Service had
arrived. He had lied at first, saying that he had faked
the claim about his true self. But they had confronted
him with irrefutable proof as to his identity. It was then
that he had pleaded with them—tried to explain as
best he could what his new identity, his new role in the
world and his ability to protect people he now thought
of as family, meant to him. And they had understood,
and at that moment Ark Bennet was dead, and Ryk
Kydd was permitted to live on.
But things had happened. Bad things—things that
shouldn’t have happened. Some friends—many—had
died, and he had parted ways with those who
survived. Ryk Kydd was, and would always be, a
sniper par excel ence. Except now he wasn’t doing it
for the military: he was doing it for himself. He had
become a hired kil er. There was no noble cause now,
just the cold action of pointing the rifle, squeezing the
trigger, and col ecting his pay.
Although he had once known the man lined up in his
sights, Kydd felt nothing for him one way or the other.
He didn’t care about MacMasters’s politics, or his
family, or the ramifications of the action about to
occur. Al he cared about was doing this thing he was
so good at, using the gift some hel ish angel had
blessed him with.
“Fel ow Confederates, I cannot tel you what joy it
brings me to see so many of you turned out here
tonight.”
Gently, like a lover caressing the object of his
desire, Kydd placed his finger on the trigger. There
was no computerized helmet to help him gauge the
temperature, humidity, altitude, and barometric
pressure. There were only slight modifications to the
scope of the rifle itself. He had surpassed the need
for most of that, experience and instinct coming
together in a duet of death.
Careful y, Ryk started to squeeze the trigger.
“Not the best idea.”
At once Kydd spun around, but the intruder was too
fast. There was a blur of motion, a swirl of a long coat,
and a kick too swift to see, and Kydd’s rifle went flying
out of his hands and clattered on the floor. Even as he
lost his grip on it, Kydd was
Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar