“There’s an old Earth saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
M’lani made a very unprincess-like sound. “Now there’s a double-edged sword!”
“Don’t be difficult! I doubt either of us thought our marriage would be easy. Be grateful for anything that makes it more tolerable. I mean, the last thing in the world I expected on my wedding night was a demand from my bride to tone down the passion.”
“You are truly abominable.”
A smile broke over his face, his dark eyes sparkling with the mischief she remembered from their days as playmates. “But I can be remarkably charming when I wish. And I have all the experience you so long to discover about what men and women do during the mating ritual.”
With a sharp hiss of breath, M’lani turned on her side, presenting him with her back. Jagan bent down, pressed a kiss against her bare shoulder, sucking in a hiss that matched hers as his body reacted even more strongly than it had the last time they touched. Whatever you’re doing, goddess, keep it up. It’s fine by me. By the time he nuzzled his way under M’lani’s fall of red hair and begun to suckle the back of her neck, he was lost. And so was his bride. So what if it wasn’t love? Passion would do nicely until they had time to discover if anything more was possible.
Somehow M’lani was on her back, her arms clutching him tight, as they rained kisses on any spot of flesh they could reach. Her nightgown vanished, Jagan’s clothing as well, not so much as a lingering thread to mark their passing—leaving only heat and light, want and need, passion going incandescent . . . fading into a glow of completion.
Until in the depths of the darkness just before dawn, the glow winked out as reality crept back, stalking their fragile rapport, reminding them they were two strong-willed, magically powerful people who must learn to live with each other out of bed, as well as in.
Chapter 20
Blue Moon
Alek opened his eyes to a room that was clearly some kind of med unit. No solace of lost memory for the captain of Tycho. The whole batani disaster came back in a single rush. The moan he heard was likely his own.
His crew, the ship . . . Fyd! Where was everybody? Someone? Anyone? Where was a med tech when you wanted one?
“Captain?”
Irritated because someone dared speak to him from behind when he couldn’t move his fydding head, Alek waggled his fingers, motioning the idiot forward.
“I beg your pardon,” said a woman right out of Viking legend—blond, blue-eyed, and cold as ice. A woman wearing as many stars on her uniform as he was. Or had been until they put him in the skimpy nothing he seemed to be wearing. “You probably don’t remember me, we only met once. Jordana Tegge. Of Scorpio.”
Of course she was. He supposed this was Rigel’s way of saying, “Welcome.” A huntership captain for a bedside watcher. Alek opened his mouth—nothing more than a gurgle came out. He grimaced, tried again. “My crew?” he croaked.
“Incredibly, you only lost five.” She named them, while Alek made no attempt to hide his sorrow. “You were running light. Ninety-seven others were injured, but only ten are still considered critical.”
“Volunteers,” he confirmed. “Those willing to leave home and family behind. We dropped the others on a neutral space station.”
Captain Tegge nodded. “Of the injured, you were the most critical.”
“Me?” he echoed, doing a quick visual check of the cast on his leg, the various beeping machines and blinking lights. “I’m weak but far from dying.”
“Concussion, captain. The swelling was intense. They feared to lose you.”
Alek lay back, closed his eyes. “How long?” he asked.
“Most of a Blue Moon cycle, about three Reg weeks. May I add that we are greatly relieved to hear you speaking normally. There was talk of your not waking up at all or of your not waking . . . as yourself.”
Three weeks. He’d been in a coma for three weeks. And waked to find the last woman in the world to be acclaimed for her bedside manner watching over him. Jordana Tegge, the Glacier from Epsilon 3.
You probably don’t remember me, Captain, we only met once.
Of all the women on all the planets . . . Pok, dimi, and fyd!
“Pardon me, Captain,” she said, “but I must contact Captain Rigel. He will want to know you are awake.”
“Wait! Just a moment.” He’d let ancient memories divert him from his duty. “Tycho? Will she fly again?”
Tegge actually smiled. Clearly, she understood kinship with a spaceship. “They say she will, though she’ll have to be hauled up to the spaceport in pieces and reassembled there. Our engineers assure us they can knock out any kinks Blue Moon put into her.”
Caught in a surge of joy, Alek grinned. He hadn’t totaled the old girl. Tycho would live again. He groaned as a sudden thought hit him. Clearly, his memory of recent events was not as comprehensive as he’d thought. “Alala?” he exclaimed. “What happened to Alala?”
“Not a scratch,” Jordana assured him. “A remarkably hardy creature.” She gave him a sharp look. “The crew tells me she’s your mistress, but she denies it. Hotly.”
“Fyd!” Alek propped a hand to his forehead. “I assure you she is correct. She is Alala Kynthia Thanos, a Herculon. A refugee sent to the rebellion by Admiral Vander Rigel.”
Jordana Tegge’s blue eyes went wide. “I’d better make that call now.”
Alek lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. To say he hadn’t anticipated this moment would be a lie. He just had not expected to confront Captain Jordana Tegge with a bandaged head and a leg hoisted half-way to the ceiling while wearing the ugliest excuse for a garment known to mankind. Fydding freaking fyd!
Psyclid
The Crystal City Hall of Justice had once been one of Psyclid’s architectural gems, with walls of sparkling crystos and floors of precious black marble. The beauty of its front façade boasted towering columns of green marble rising above broad steps of the same material. Psyclids took great pride in this particular government building. Until the Regs chose it for the headquarters of the Occupation.
When the Psyclid flag came down from the tall pole set into the grass on one side of the front faustone walkway, the building’s luster dimmed. But it did not turn ugly until five priestesses, four magicians, six magician assistants, eight dancers, two lighting technicians, and three stagehands were arrested and thrust into cells in the basement.
Until General Anatol Grigorev, expecting trouble, ordered the erection of faustone barricades, leaving only a single gated and guarded entrance at the front and an underground ramp from the basement in the rear, also gated and guarded. Until eight armored groundcars, two to each side of the building, moved into place, with swiveling rapid-fire guns on top and room for six soldiers to fire from behind the safety of the vehicles’ armor-plated sides.
But in the end the ugliness helped. When the hostages disappeared without a trace, the rebels’ most adept psychics swore they were alive, but no one could find them. They were not held in the Psyclid jail or at the detention center at the Reg barracks. No sign of them at the Heavy Weapons Depot. Nor at the hospital, where members of the Psyclid staff would have reported their presence to T’kal Killiri in a matter of hours. Warehouses and abandoned buildings were ruled out. Lack of security.
The ancient holding cells in the basement of the Hall of Justice? Quite possibly, but how to find out?
And then the armored cars rolled in, the barricades went up . . .
“Not exactly subtle,” Anton Stagg said to Joss Quint as their hovercab set them down at the front entrance. The sergeant chuckled.
They were an impressive pair, the major and the sergeant. Both tall and broad-shouldered, Quint only slightly shorter than his superior officer. Both sported military-short brown hair barely visible beneath their caps. Both had sharp eyes that saw and analyzed everything around them, the major’s eyes hazel, the sergeant’s closer to gray than blue. Both wore their own bright red Reg marine u
niforms piped in blue, with Anton Stagg’s new gold leaf insignia, carefully handcrafted on Blue Moon.
It was hardly surprising their appearance did almost as much as their faked credentials and carefully crafted cover story in getting them past the Reg guards. After dutifully paying their respects to the acting Governor General as representatives of the corvette Karlmann, docked for re-supply, they found it remarkably easy to start up conversations with bored guards eager for news of home and the tales Joss Quint had a decided talent for manufacturing. Which quickly led to the confidence that the GG had a fondness for gloating over his hostages, particularly the priestesses, whom he summoned to his office on a regular basis. This information was accompanied by a wink and a nod that forced both marines to struggle with an urge to flatten the Reg guard right there and then.
But they managed to return salacious glances of their own, Anton leaning in to whisper, “Is there any chance we could get a look at those crazy rebs? I’ve never seen a Psy priestess.”
“Make a great story to take back home,” Joss added hopefully.
“Which, believe it or not, is how we got to see the lot of them,” the major reported to the rebel leaders that night. “Twenty-eight people in four cells. Underground, a good sixty meters from the exit ramp.”
“Are they well?” M’lani asked.
“Have they been tortured and beaten?” Anton interpreted. “The men looked as if they might have had a go or two. The women? Nothing I could see except they were pale, and thinner.”
“They’re able to walk?” Jagan asked.
“We played the obnoxious tourists, gave each cell a good look-see. A few were lying on cots, so it was hard to tell, but overall I’d say they’re mobile.”
“But the logistics are just plain evil,” Quint offered. “There’s no military maneuver that’s going to get them out of there.”
“And there’s talk of moving them to the Kepler,” Anton added. “Supposedly only Grigorev’s personal delight in tormenting the priestesses and some of the youngest dancers, is keeping the hostages where they are.”
“How soon?” Jagan demanded.
“Impossible to tell. Evidently Kamal is urging him to do it now and the GG is balking. He’s having too much fun, not only with the hostages, but it seems likely he’s taunting us, perhaps using them as bait. I don’t think he ever really believed any of them were responsible for what happened at the Tri-Moon Festival.”
“Killiri?” Jagan said, “you’re unusually quiet. I thought you’d be yelling at us to get a plan going before Stagg even finished his report.”
“If Her Highness could overcome her scruples long enough to disintegrate every Reg in the building . . .”
“T’kal!” L’rissa swatted her brother hard on his shoulder. “Since when have you not been eager for a challenge?”
“A challenge is one thing, dying another,” he growled.
“Are you saying your people aren’t ready for this?” Jagan demanded.
“T’kal shook his head. “I can’t see any way in or out that won’t strain enlasé to the breaking point. It’s not as if my people have been doing it all their lives.”
“Daman Killiri,” M’lani interjected, her royal training in diplomacy firmly in place, “you and your people immobilized a half mile of parade. How can they not manage a few Reg guards and armored cars?”
T’kal bowed his head, shoulders hunched. “It would seem I am more Psyclid than I thought, Highness. “I may not care what happens to the Regs, but I definitely care about my own. This will be the first time I have asked my people to do something so dangerous it threatens their lives.”
“Then we must plan well,” M’lani said, “and pray we can do this with nothing worse than Grigorev going the way of General Yarian.”
“T’kal, what of our heritage?” L’rissa demanded. “We are predators by nature. Which is as un-Psyclid as one can get.”
“We are Psyclid weres,” Killiri spat out from between clenched teeth. “And I am responsible for all my people, were or norm.”
“What’s ‘norm’ about Psyclids?” Sergeant Quint’s muttered. In spite of the seriousness of the discussion, M’lani’s lips quirked into a smile, but Jagan was not amused.
“A conscience, Killiri?” he mocked. “Haven’t ripped out any throats lately?”
“If we did not need you, Sorcerer,” Killiri offered with more than a little disgust, “we should plan for the night of your wedding. The town will be delirious, even the Regs distracted by all the festivities.”
“Can we wait that long?” M’lani asked, choosing to take his suggestion seriously.
“Beg pardon?” T’kal stared at her as if he could not have heard her correctly.
“Major,” M’lani said, “will Grigorev keep the hostages in the Hall of Justice another week?”
“It would take us that long to develop the details anyway,” Jagan added.
Four pairs of eyes—two shape-shifters, two Reg marine—stared at the royal couple. “You actually want to do this on your wedding night?” T’kal asked.
“As you said, when could we have a better diversion?”
“Fyd,” Joss Quint breathed beneath the astonished chatter that erupted.
“Highness.” T’kal turned to M’lani. “Do you agree to this?”
“I do.”
“Well, Sorcerer,” the Psyclid rebel leader said, “tell us how we do the impossible. Make magic.”
Chapter 21
Blue Moon
Tal Rigel strode into Alek Rybolt’s med room, his hand out, a broad smile on his face. After a firm handshake and an exchange of looks that rolled together friendship, shared experiences, pride, and an underlying sympathy for bad moments that only two military starship captains could fully grasp, Tal announced,. “The batani docs have finally given me permission to talk to you for more than a minute.”
Alek nodded. “They’re actually considering letting me out of here sometime this week. Fyd! I’ve felt so helpless. So many of my crew injured, Tycho a wreck, and here I sit. I keep telling them I’m fine—”
Tal laughed, grabbing the arm Alek was waving in agitation and lowering it gently to the bedcovering. He pulled up a chair. “I promise we’re taking care of the whole lot . . . even Alala.”
Alek offered a sharp look. “Is she causing trouble?”
“Not exactly,” Tal returned carefully, the skin over his sculpted cheekbones wrinkling in a wry grimace. “She keeps to herself, maintains military formality to the point of seeming more like a prisoner of war than someone on our side—”
“That’s just her way.”
Tal searched his friend’s face. “Somehow she doesn’t seem your type.”
“My type!” Alek exploded. “Didn’t Tegge make it clear? The girl’s a gift from your father.”
“Gift?” Tal stared. “On second thought the docs better keep you here a while longer.”
“Come on, Tal. I know Tegge told you. Evidently, Alala was captured, brought back to Regula, and somehow the admiral managed to rescue her the same way he rescued the Psyclid princess so long ago. And, yes, I know Kiolani is your wife. You’d be surprised what a sick man can pick up in a med unit.”
“I rescued Kass.”
“And your father preserved her long after you were supposedly dead.”
“True.” Tal’s indignation subsided, his mind, as always, refocusing on the bigger picture. “Tegge indicated the girl was some kind of a message?”
“I’d guess pretty much along the line of killing two birds with one stone. Well, perhaps three,” Alek added on further reflection. “One—I understand Alala is a true warrior, worth far more than the weight of a single fighter, though I’ve not seen her in action. Two—she needed liberating before the Regs took her apart to see what made her tick. Rumors are she was the only one left standing after a hand-to-hand involving ten Hercs and a hundred Regs.”
Tal whistled softly.
“And three—she’s also a p
ersonal message from the admiral. It seems he’s up to his neck in this rebellion. He arranged our escape, sent us out to find you. I mean, come on, Tal. After that last battle—seeing Orion and Scorpio together—some of us knew S’sorrokan had to be you.”
“A-ah.” Tal closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, the fingers of his right hand pressed to his forehead.
“It can’t be that much of a surprise—evidently your father supported the princess’s rescue from the very beginning.”
Slowly, Tal raised his head, struggling with relief, burgeoning hope, and . . . pride. Five-star Admiral Vander Rigel, a member of the Emperor’s High Council, had begun his own rebellion. And sent a battlecruiser and a Herc warrior to tell him so. There was no way, Tal knew, his father would be alone in whatever plot he was hatching—he was far too smart for that. Undoubtedly, he was gathering supporters in the heart of the Empire, and if the admiral could maintain his Hero-of-the-Empire façade, the rebellion had just made a great leap forward. And his father rescuing a Herculon warrior was far more than a good deed. It told Tal the Hercs could be allies—strong allies—in the war against the Empire. A precious gift indeed.
Beneath his customary cool façade, Tal’s heart raced. This could be the turning point, the moment when light appeared at the end of the long dark tunnel. His guilty conscience could ease—his family knew he lived. And at long last he had reason to hope that Psyclid could be free, perhaps within the year. After that, with the help of Psyclid talent, a battlecruiser, two hunterships, several armed merchants, and the many smaller ships that had joined them over the last five years . . . plus the likelihood of the Herculons as allies—Omnovah be praised—the rebellion might end well yet. After all, they were only outgunned fifty to one. Grinning at his private joke, Tal came back to life, once again shaking Alek’s hand and promising him a room in Veranelle as soon as the docs let him out.
As he headed down the corridor toward the exit, his guards falling into place behind him, Tal stifled a groan as he considered his biggest problem with the female Herculon warrior. His father’s “gift” had been appropriated. By a wide-eyed twenty-year-old whose azure eyes followed her everywhere she went. K’kadi Amund was in love. And even Kass had no suggestions on what to do about the mismatched pair. Particularly when her baby brother’s lovesick looks and sighs were either ignored or scathingly scorned.
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