Eleven minutes, forty-five seconds. Pass the edge of the forest and turn toward the lake.
She was right at the mark when the chime of an incoming comms link yanked her out of her meditative state and back into the real world, shattering the illusion of solitude. Solveig let out an angry huff, touched the bracelet on her wrist without looking down, and flicked a finger to accept the link. Half a meter in front of her, a screen projected itself and kept exact pace as she continued running down the forest path.
“Go ahead,” she said, trying to hold back the irritation from her voice.
“Miss Solveig, I apologize for the interruption.” The face on the screen belonged to Bernard, the majordomo of the Ragnar estate.
“Let me guess. Papa.”
Bernard inclined his head. “He wishes to see you at the gymnasium right away when you return to the house. And again, I am sorry for disturbing your morning run.”
“It’s all right, Bernard. Tell Papa I will be sure to stop by.”
Bernard nodded again, and Solveig swiped the screen projection in front of her out of existence to terminate the link. There was no reason for her father to have Bernard yank on her leash when she would have been back at the house in twenty minutes anyway, but he rarely missed an opportunity to remind everyone exactly whose schedule and desires still had priority here at the family estate.
I wonder if he’d do the same to Aden, she thought. Whistle him back from his morning run early just because he can.
If the war hadn’t happened, her older brother would be the heir to the business. He’d be getting ready to head out to the office right now instead of hiding somewhere in the system under a pseudonym. She had talked to him a few times over the Mnemosyne since he had resurfaced three months ago, but they always had to keep their contact brief because of corporate security. For some reason, Aden didn’t want their father to know that he was talking to her. Respecting that wish made Solveig a coconspirator because Falk would not accept any excuse if he found out that she hadn’t told him.
Solveig thought about getting back into her flow state, but between having to check the time on her wristband and her irritation at the interruption, it had dissipated like morning fog in the sunshine, and she wasn’t about to worsen her mood by trying and failing to conjure it again. She passed the edge of the forest and took her turn toward the lake, then slackened her run to a slow trot. If Papa got to ruin her run this morning, she’d take her time getting back to the house and enjoy the quiet for a little while longer. He could make her bend her agenda to his, but he couldn’t make her hurry.
Her father was doing a sword kata in the middle of the gym floor when she walked in. Solveig watched from the entrance as he went through the motions slowly and deliberately. The sword he was using was his favorite, a slender and elegant two-hander with a slightly curved blade and a sloped cross guard. He moved it into a low guard position, parried upward, then turned the blade and executed the counterattack: downward stroke from left to right, then right to left, then straight down the centerline. In her mind, she reviewed the parries she would have needed to block each attack, the mirror image of her father’s kata, opposite-direction blocks while moving backward to make him extend his reach. Falk Ragnar finished his kata, then returned his sword to its sheath with a quick and precise movement. Her father was still fit, lean, and muscular, even at seventy, thanks to the healthiest lifestyle and the best genetic regeneration treatments money could buy.
“Did you have a good run?”
“I did,” she said, unwilling to admit that he’d messed up the most relaxing part of her day.
“Good. I like that you are keeping that routine. So much has changed since you went off to university. I’m glad to see that some things haven’t.”
“You’ve kept to your routines, too,” Solveig said. “I’ve seen you do that kata a thousand times. I bet I could set a timer to it.”
“That’s how you measure real skill, Solveig. Reliable repeatability, not peak performance.”
Falk nodded over at the equipment rack on the back wall of the gymnasium.
“Come on. Put on some armor, pick a sword. When’s the last time you sparred? Let’s see if you remember which end of the blade to use.”
“Papa, I just ran the path. I’m sweaty and I need a shower. And I need to be at the landing pad at seven thirty.”
“You’re the boss at Ragnar. Or rather, you will be. You can take ten minutes to humor me. The pilot on duty will wait for you, I promise.”
Solveig didn’t feel like sparring, but she knew that her father wouldn’t take a refusal for an answer without kindling discord. She walked over to the equipment rack and put on the adaptive armor they used for sparring with live blades. It was made of several layers of slash- and stab-proof synthetic spidersilk, cushioned by a layer of kinetic gel to absorb impacts. Falk Ragnar did not use blunt practice blades, even if it meant that sparring partners had to wear armor that cost as much as a decent gyrofoil.
While her armor was adjusting itself to her body shape, she looked at the blades on the rack. Her father had rotated out some of the weapons as his whims and preferences had changed over the years, but some of the swords she had used years ago were still there. He was using his favored
