by C. Gockel
Jerem had wanted to retort that of course he knew that, he wasn’t a baby, but since he liked Risa most of the time he didn’t feel like arguing with her. There was a big hole in her argument, anyway—Jerem and Mia had always lived in this house, even while she was still going to the university, and obviously that was before she had started Felaris Security Systems and began making all this money off commissions. How a college student, especially one from as poor a planet as Iradia, could have afforded a place like this had also never been explained to his satisfaction.
His life was like that, full of little inconsistencies and questions that weren’t supposed to be asked. Jerem knew he didn’t have much cause for complaint, because it was certainly a pretty nice life as far as he could tell, except for school maybe. And even that wasn’t so bad, because all his friends had to go, too, so at least they were all stuck there together.
In an odd way it was sort of reassuring to know that his father had been a pilot, even though Jerem had thought to himself once or twice that he couldn’t have been that great a pilot, or he wouldn’t have gotten shot down over Arlinais. Of course he knew better than to mention these traitorous thoughts to his mother. Still, maybe his father’s flying skills could explain why Jerem was able to hit the plastic targets Mikhal set up on top of the fort ten times out of ten (he missed only every once in a great while, and then usually because Mikhal had done something to distract him), or the way Jerem could eyeball the distance between himself and any other object and guess it down to the tenth of a meter, or—well, there were lots of things like that. If nothing else, his uncanny motor skills guaranteed that he was always chosen first for the pulseball games at school.
Jerem knew he hadn’t inherited any of that from his mother—she was still slender and trim, but probably because she worked out for an hour in the home gym five days a week and spent the rest of the time she wasn’t at work chasing after him. She certainly didn’t care much for sports or other physical activities, things that seemed to come to Jerem as easily as breathing.
Scowling at the glittering harbor, Jerem hefted a rock—left on the fort’s roof from one of his previous target-practice sessions—and threw it at the border of mothlace trees at the edge of the property. As he had predicted, the rock cleanly sliced through the slender branch at which he had been aiming, and the whole piece fell off and onto the grass below. Once he had thrown the rock, he felt a little guilty about the damage he had caused, but he tried to excuse it by telling himself the gardeners would have trimmed it back soon anyway.
With a sigh, he launched himself off the roof of the fort in a perfect arc, hitting the ground rolling and then bouncing straight up into a standing position. His mother probably would have given him what-for if she’d seen him pull that particular stunt. But he’d done it dozens of times before, and since she wasn’t here to scold him, he just brushed off the knees of his pants and wandered back inside. Maybe he might as well go over to Mikhal’s house after all.
As he switched on the comm and punched in Mik’s number, Jerem wondered idly whether his mother was as bored as he was.
Miala swallowed, then thought despairingly, I’m going to die here...and my son will never know what happened to me. He’ll think I abandoned him.
The Stacian continued to glare at her, even as his fingers ground into her jaw. She knew her face would be bruised later...if there even were a “later.”
She knew that any answer she gave him would be the wrong one, and she certainly wasn’t about to tell him the truth. That money was hers, rightfully taken in payment for her father’s blood, for the man who hadn’t lived to see his grandson because of Mast’s perfidy. Some of it had been spent while she went to school, but she had earned a great deal back over the past few years, and a majority of the funds were still intact. That didn’t even count Thorn’s share, of course. His portion of the money she had deposited in a bank on New Chicago, where it had steadily gathered interest over the intervening eight years.
So she glanced up at the Stacian with as guileless a look as she could manage and said, “I don’t know where the money is.”
“Wrong answer,” he replied immediately, and his fingers moved from her jaw down to her throat, pressing on the delicate skin there, squeezing down on her windpipe.
“I swear I don’t know!” she gasped, desperately trying to draw enough air into her lungs to choke out a protest. “I don’t know why you think I have it!”
The pressure on her throat eased the tiniest fraction. “Because,” Murgan said softly, bending his braid-crowned head toward hers, “it was your father who installed Mast’s security system. Because the last trace of you in Aldis Nova was a report submitted to the local garrison regarding your missing father. Because rumor states that you were nearly as good a hacker as he. Who else could have taken it?”
“Anyone,” Miala wheezed. “The place was wide open after Mast was killed. Anyone could have come in here and gotten the treasure.”
“‘Anyone’? Does that include Rast Darlester, whose transport was mysteriously destroyed by unknown defenders in this very compound, days after Mast was killed?”
Well, no matter what else she could say about him, Murgan obviously had damn good intelligence. She’d almost forgotten about Darlester. But his destruction was his own fault. If he hadn’t come poking and prying, then she and Thorn wouldn’t have been forced to defend themselves.
But obviously she couldn’t admit to any of that, so instead she only said, in a choked whisper, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Quite a few protestations of ignorance from a woman who’s supposed to be a genius,” commented Murgan. “Here’s an easy one, then. If you didn’t take the treasure, how did you get off Iradia in the first place? Everyone in Aldis Nova said you and your father were dirt-poor.”
“It’s not that hard to hitch a ride if you’re friendly enough,” she replied, and gave a small hiccupping laugh, all she could manage with Murgan’s hand on her throat. The lie wasn’t that far from the truth anyway. She and Thorn certainly had had a much closer relationship than merely as business partners.
The Stacian’s eyes narrowed, but whether in scorn or simply disgust, Miala couldn’t be sure. Not that she cared what he thought of her.
But then the pressure on her throat intensified once more, even as Murgan said, “I think you’re lying. The truth, before you die.”
A reddish mist swam up before Miala’s eyes, even as the room seemed to grow steadily dimmer. Desperately she brought her hands up to claw at Murgan’s ever-tightening fingers, but the Stacian might have been made out of steel for all the difference her feeble attempts made.
“She can’t tell you anything if she’s dead.”
That voice. She knew it—and had never thought to hear it again. It had the slightest rough edge, contrasted with a faint singsong intonation that she hadn’t heard from anyone else. Eryk Thorn’s voice.
Miala knew better than to turn and look for him in the crowd that had stood watching as Murgan throttled her, but her hands dropped suddenly to her side as she felt the Stacian release his hold ever so slightly.
“No one asked for your opinion, mercenary,” Murgan rasped.
“I’m giving it anyway.”
Apparently nonplussed, Murgan scowled, then suddenly let go of Miala’s throat. She gasped, feeling the welcome air rush back into her lungs. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing at the alien’s feet.
The crowd shifted slightly, and for the first time she saw Eryk Thorn. His face was mostly hidden behind wrappings of dark fabric, and instead of the jumpsuit he had worn the last time she’d seen him, he wore robes that seemed to echo the local garb, albeit in shades of dark gray and black. But it was indisputably him.
With an almost physical ache Miala remembered how his arms had felt around her, the slight rasp of his shaven cheek against hers, the strength of his mouth on her lips. All the sensations she thought she had locked away forever seemed to flood her at
once, and she quickly glanced down at the floor, afraid that the longing she felt would be plain to all those who looked on her.
“Who’s running things around here, scum?” Murgan demanded. “You, or me?”
“You,” said Thorn, his tone casual. “But she’s no good to you dead, is she?”
The Stacian made a sound like a low growl in his throat. With a sudden, vicious movement he backhanded Miala against the side of her cheek, and she stumbled and fell onto the stone floor. The pain was immediate and shocking, like a white-hot explosion in her flesh. She ground her teeth together, shutting her eyes for a moment.
Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t let him see you cry...
It was hard for her to focus past the throbbing in her cheek. Through slitted eyes she saw Thorn shift his weight, almost as if he wanted to come forward to help her but knew better than to show her any particular solicitude.
Then Murgan squatted down next to Miala, pushing her disheveled hair out of the way so he could see her face more clearly. “That hurt, didn’t it?” he asked. “I can make you hurt a lot more before I kill you. Perhaps you should think on that for a while.” Moving with ponderous majesty, he stood, hauling Miala upright as he did so.
The room seemed to swim around her, but she blinked vigorously against the pain. After a few seconds she thought that at least she wasn’t going to pass out.
All the while she found herself wishing she could think of some clever retort, but her cheek hurt too much. Instead, she stood there silently, praying that he was tired of her for now and would toss her back in her cell for some much-needed rest.
As it turned out, that appeared to be his plan. The Stacian gestured toward the two tall humans who had stood behind him all this time, and they stepped forward and each grasped one of Miala’s arms.
“Perhaps a few hours of contemplation will persuade you to tell me more about Mast’s treasure,” Murgan said. He reached out and touched her bruised cheek. Even that light contact was enough to make her wince. “You have a pretty face, my dear. Think about whether it’s worth preserving or not.” And with that he nodded toward the two guards, who pulled her through the watching ranks of Murgan’s henchmen and back down the corridor, pushing her roughly when she stumbled. Her boots slipped on the steps once or twice, and she was certain she would fall, but their bruising grasp on her arms kept her upright.
Once they were back on the prison level, they shoved her back inside her cell and watched with satisfaction as the bars clanged shut. Miala stumbled to the bench and sat down, thankful for even the harsh comfort it provided.
One of the guards, the taller of the two, whose face was marked by a wicked burn on one cheek, gave her a leering smile. “Better tell him what he wants,” he said. “He’s promised us that we’ll be able to borrow you for a while before he kills you. You might want to think about that.” Then he blew her a kiss and laughed, with the other guard joining in and grinning.
In answer Miala only huddled herself closer to the wall, turning her burning cheek away from them and up against the cool sandstone. After a moment, apparently disgusted by her lack of response, they left, but not before making a few more choice remarks that made the blood rush to her face.
It’s all right, she told herself. Thorn is here. He’ll come down here and break me out as soon as he gets a chance. He won’t let Murgan do anything else to me.
All she could do now was wait for him to save her.
15
She must have dozed off, so Miala had no clear idea of how much time had passed before she heard the barred cell doors open with a sudden whoosh. Instantly she sat upright, heart beating a sharp staccato in her chest. Had they come for her already?
“Quiet,” came Thorn’s voice.
Straining her eyes against the darkness, she thought she saw him enter, moving slowly. His form looked oddly misshapen, almost hunch-backed.
“Off the bench,” he instructed, and she immediately stood, pulling her satchel out of the way as well.
As soon as she had moved, Thorn stepped forward and then dropped some sort of unwieldy object on the bench.
“What is that?” she whispered.
“That,” he replied, his voice also pitched low, “is a ‘friend’ of one of the guards. She’s not a perfect match for height and build, but her hair’s about the same color as yours.”
Mystified, Miala inquired, “Am I missing something?”
Thorn seemed to do something with the girl’s limp form—Miala thought he was turning her toward the wall in roughly the same position Miala had just occupied. “Security’s on a four-minute loop. When the cameras track back on this cell, they’ll think you never moved. So let’s get going.”
He grasped Miala by the arm, and she winced slightly—the guards had left bruises on her bicep. But Thorn appeared not to notice. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.
Then he pulled her out of the cell and closed the doors once again. To the casual observer, such as a guard watching a remote video feed, it would appear all was normal—at least until someone noticed that Miala’s hapless replacement was missing from her normal haunts.
Nor was the comatose girl the only casualty of Thorn’s rescue effort, apparently. Once they were a few steps down the hallway, which was only dimly lit by a few fading sconces, Miala saw the guard who had taunted her earlier. At first she thought he stood at attention outside a cell at the end of the hall, and she couldn’t help giving a frightened little gasp. But then she noticed he looked oddly stiff and suddenly realized that the man was either unconscious or dead and had been neatly attached to the bars of the cell with very fine cord.
“Nice work,” she commented in an undertone.
Thorn swiveled his dark-swathed head toward her. “I try to cover my tracks.”
Miala was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Thank you, Thorn.”
“Thank me later. We’re not out of here yet.”
The hallway branched into two more corridors. Thorn chose the left one, which appeared to be a service passageway of some sort. At any rate, there were no more cells here, just a series of closed doors, most of which had electronic “lock” buttons glowing red in the darkness.
Here Thorn paused for a moment. Miala stood quietly and waited as he typed what looked like a series of complicated commands into some sort of device mounted on his forearm.
“How did you know I would be here?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t look up. “I didn’t. I heard Murgan was having some sort of security consultant come in. Then I saw it was you.”
It was impossible to tell from his inflection whether he had been at all surprised to see her—or whether encountering her again after so many years had affected him in the slightest. Well, what had she expected, anyway? For him to fling his arms around her and declare his undying love right there in the passageway?
“You probably should have done a background check on Murgan before you took the gig,” he went on. “Careless.”
Scowling, Miala snapped, “Of course I did a check! My assistant looked into Murgan’s history before I left Nova Angeles, and it didn’t show anything out of the ordinary or that he was anything more than Dizhan had said he was—the owner of a shipping company who was expanding into mining here on Iradia.”
“Believe everything you read?”
Obviously the intervening years hadn’t made Thorn any less impossible. What really irritated her was that she had been kicking herself over the same issue. Risa had checked out Murgan, however, and as tidy little bits of data on a computer screen, he had seemed perfectly respectable. If someone was bound and determined to cook their files and hide anything unsavory, it would require a lot more effort to dig up that information than the simple investigation Miala always had performed before she took on a contract. Up until now it had never been an issue—but, as was usually the case, this one exception had turned out to be a doozy.
She wanted to argue with Thorn and knew that it was pointles
s. So instead she just crossed her arms and glared at him, waiting for him to make the next move.
Perhaps he smiled behind the layers of dark fabric. Perhaps not. She would never know.
Instead he gestured upward, as if to indicate the bulk of the compound, located somewhere above their heads. “Funny thing is, Murgan really could use a new security system. Thing hasn’t been replaced since we were here eight years ago. And his guards are a joke. This passage comes out about ten meters in front of the garage, and my ship is on a landing pad about another twenty meters past there. I figure we have a good ten minutes or so before anyone figures out Sleeping Beauty in there isn’t you—”
From his words Miala guessed that the unfortunate young woman was only unconscious. She hadn’t had the courage to ask Thorn whether the victim was alive or dead. “So—she’ll be all right?”
“She’ll wake up with a hell of a headache, and possibly questioning her taste in men.” His head cocked to one side. “That’s immaterial. What concerns us is how many hostiles are between us and my ship.”
“How many?”
He shrugged. “Between five and eight, if they stick to their usual patterns. No reason not to.”
“I suppose you’d know all about it.” Miala lifted an eyebrow. “How long have you been here?”
“About two years, off and on. Just contract work.”
It was on her lips to make a sharp comment about Thorn not being overly picky when it came to his own employers, but she knew better. After all, the mercenary had worked for Mast and God knows how many other unsavory types with deep pockets over the years. Why he’d felt the need to take on that kind of work when he could have come and claimed his half of Mast’s treasure at any time boggled her. Was working for slimebags like Murgan so much more preferable to seeing her?
Trust Thorn, she thought, to tick me off so much that I almost forgot he just got me out of Murgan’s jail cell!
Maybe he got a kick out of working for the dregs of the galaxy. Maybe being at the beck and call of scum such as Murgan held more appeal than having to look her up on Nova Angeles and politely request his half of the treasure. Hell, it had been his idea for her to hang on to it in the first place. At the time she hadn’t argued, but of course she’d hoped, deep down, that he would come back for it one day. Then a year had passed, and another, and his son had gone from infant to toddler to a boy who held in his face and his actions the promise of being almost a carbon copy of his father. And somewhere along the way she’d given up hope of ever seeing Eryk Thorn again. If he never claimed the money, she’d leave it to his son. But never, ever would she touch one unit of it. Not that she’d had any need to.
