Price of Ransom

by Kate Elliott

  “Now,” said Lily. The relief she felt—the simple joy—at Kyosti’s complete trust was abruptly overshadowed by the knowledge that she was about to lose him again.

  “You’re his mate?” Windsor stared, astonished, at her. “Mother’s tits. No wonder you were willing to trade yourself for him. I had a hunch you’d do it, but I didn’t know why.” He lifted a hand, and at the signal the two Ardakians appeared at the edge of the forest. Both were armed. Both used the cover of the trees to effectively shield themselves from any fire the shuttle might produce. “Sorry,” Windsor continued, apologetic. “But I can’t take the chance that you’ll try to escape again. Fred’s got enough firepower to blow the shuttle, and it is rather a sitting target. You might have positioned it better.”

  “I always meant to keep my end of the exchange. Hawk for me. I trust”—she let her voice grow skeptical—“you’ll let both Hawk and the shuttle go.”

  Windsor laughed, brief and bitter. “I’ve got a damned poor reputation, don’t I?” He sobered abruptly. “Tell him to go. I want to get this over with.”

  “Kyosti.”

  Instead of replying, he dipped his head, brushing her cheek with one side of his face, and then walked away across the meadow, toward the shuttle. In the silence of the vast landscape, unpopulated by any humanity but themselves, a high buzzy whine sounded in the distance, steady and growing.

  “I’ll be damned,” Windsor breathed. “How in hell did you end up with Hawk?”

  But finally, several discrete bits of information clicked into place in Lily’s mind. “You were a saboteur. That’s how you know him. That’s where your loyalty lies.”

  “You pissing well didn’t think it lay with Concord Intelligence, did you?” He sounded offended, and taken by surprise.

  Lily laughed. “Damn my eyes!”

  His surprise turned to suspicion. “What’s so damn funny? I know you weren’t one of us.” The harsh lines on his face furrowed, giving him a look of great pain. “Bastards. Those pissing bastards.”

  Lily reached inside her tunic and drew out the medallion. Seeing it, Windsor lost his color—the pasty white of his face made him look sick and hopeless. “What does this mean anyway?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  “How did you get that?” His voice was so tight that she could barely hear it. “How did you meet Hawk?” He paused, and she waited, aware that he was about to say something else, but was reluctant to. “How—how do you know Gwyn?”

  “I got this from him. He’s my father.”

  Windsor blanched. He looked beyond Lily, and she glanced over her shoulder to see that Kyosti had reached the shuttle but had halted at the ramp, watching them. Looking back at Windsor, Lily suddenly and inexplicably felt guilty, because it was obvious that this new knowledge was causing the bounty hunter inner anguish. The distant whine had grown to a low rumble.

  “You’re Gwyn’s daughter?” It was as much as he could do to get those three words out.

  “Not by blood,” she said quickly.

  “No, you mean in the craft.” He looked abruptly and terribly sad. “It comes to the same thing. Oh God, they betrayed us both.”

  It took her a blink to register his words. “What are you talking about?”

  “Go,” he said brusquely. “Take Hawk and go. They just said you’d been traveling with Gwyn. I didn’t ask for specifics. I didn’t want to know. I damned well spent the whole hunt pretending it was just a coincidence, that and the mark.”

  “What mark?”

  “The medallion. Just go. I can’t take you in now.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  The rumble arced up to a scream, and a ship buzzed low and fast over the meadow. It was a sleek, modern vessel of a type she had never seen before. As she stared, it overshot the meadow, banked and turned, and returned, lower now.

  Windsor swore, reached out, and yanked Lily roughly to the ground. She fell flat on her stomach beside him.

  Fire streaked out from the ship—laser fire. Streaks of flame lit and died in the grass. There was a sudden, horrifying snap, followed by a low explosion, and a gout of fire and smoke erupted from the shuttle’s far window—Lily rolled to her feet.

  “Get down!” Windsor shouted.

  Kyosti still stood by the ramp, staring up as the ship banked and turned again for its return. He showed no indication that he was aware that he was in any danger.

  Deucalion appeared, stumbling down the shuttle’s ramp. Smoke billowed out behind him.

  “Fred. Stanford.” Windsor spoke to himself, and yet obviously to the two Ardakians who were clearly too far away to hear him. “Can you get a shot?”

  Already the ship was firing again. Seams of light peppered the metal of the Hope’s shuttle. Lily began to run, but someone—Windsor—tackled her from behind and threw her headlong into the grass. Laser fire singed grass and dirt one meter in front of her face. Behind, from the cover of the trees, two guns sounded.

  “Let me go,” she cried, and struggled, but Windsor, whatever his other faults, was as trained a fighter as she was—and he had far more experience on his side.

  At the grounded shuttle, smoke and fire streaming from every opening and several ragged holes, Deucalion yelled something at Hawk and then turned to go back inside. Hawk did not move, oblivious to everything but the arc and turn of the ship in the sky above as it banked for its next pass.

  “We’re the targets,” Windsor shouted. “Break for the trees.” He tugged at her, and did not let go as she rose with him. “You can’t help them by going to them. Break!” They ran for the trees.

  Fire seared the meadow around them as they sprinted. She felt its hot breath sting her cheek and singe her hair. They flung themselves into the cover of the nearest tree, not five meters from Fred.

  Seeing them, he lowered his large gun. It looked archaic, but effective. “Sorry, boss. No range at their speed.”

  Lily turned.

  In time to see Deucalion reel, alone, out of the Hope’s shuttle. Hawk still watched the sky. The other ship banked again.

  A beat, and then Yehoshua appeared dragging a limp Pinto with one arm and carrying the shuttle’s hand-pack radio in the other. Deucalion helped him maneuver Pinto down the ramp.

  Hawk, finally, turned, registering the men’s presence with sudden interest. Words were exchanged. Deucalion hoisted Pinto across his back. The men jogged as well as they could away from the shuttle.

  The other ship dipped low, firing.

  This time the shuttle vanished in an explosion that threw the three men and the unconscious Pinto on to the ground. Lily felt it, a wave of heat and pressure, even as far as the trees.

  The ship pulled a tight circle, altering its course to streak low across the prostrate men and begin firing at the trees. Behind it, coming in low over the hills, appeared a second vessel of the same type. It did not fire at all, but came to an impossible halt in midair and sank, engines screaming, to land beside the charred, smoking hulk of the ruined shuttle.

  17 Sans Merci

  AS SOON AS THE ship in the air had overshot their position, Fred hoisted his gun nimbly over one broad shoulder and moved quickly over to where Windsor and Lily huddled between two tree trunks.

  “Armored, boss.” He made a movement with his head, indicating the ship that had just landed. “We got nothing that’ll crack it.”

  Windsor swore, a string of oaths that Lily did not recognize. “The bastards must have brought those in from The Pale.” He looked at Lily, and she was surprised to see that he was grinning. “They must want you pretty badly.” He hoisted himself up, a smooth, trained movement at odds with the stubble on his unshaven face and the shabbiness of his clothing. “Let’s go. This cover isn’t good enough. And we’ve got company.”

  She turned as he turned. Above, she could hear the arc of sound as the ship pulled around over the trees. But the other ship, the one that had landed, had lowered a ramp and now armed figures—two, four, eight—emerged out of the ship.<
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  “My crew—” She could see no sign of them in the grass.

  Before she could move, Fred grabbed her.

  “Ransome. The odds aren’t with us right now. Let’s go.”

  “I won’t leave them to be killed!”

  Windsor looked sincerely perplexed. “Why would they kill them?”

  “I have no idea. But someone just tried.”

  “Not for them, Ransome. For us. They’re safe enough.”

  She tugged against Fred but his hold was ridiculously strong. “Do you expect me to take that chance?” she demanded.

  Windsor sighed and made a sign with one hand to Fred. “No. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Lily did not bother to dignify the comment with a reply.

  Fred’s grip shifted, and she twisted her arm, spun, and broke for freedom.

  Only to find herself hoisted up next to Fred’s gun, as helpless in his grasp as it was. Her view was of the farther depths of the forest, and of Stanford, appearing as if by magic some five meters away from behind a tree that should not have been broad enough to conceal his stocky form.

  “Korrigan,” he said primly, “there are twelve armed humans headed this way. No. Six have broken off to retrieve min Ransome’s companions. I suggest we make haste.”

  “He’s right, boss.” Fred turned and now Lily could see the meadow and the small figures fanned out in order. Six had surrounded her party. She could not see Hawk or Pinto, but Yehoshua had risen to his knees, hands clasped behind his head, and Deucalion rose as she watched and set his hands on his hips. The armed men, approaching, hesitated and lowered their guns, evidently cowed by Deucalion’s posture or by one of his lectures.

  “Go on ahead,” said Windsor. “Stanford, you got any gas?”

  She could not see them, only heard a soft thump as something thrown was caught, and then Fred began to move quickly away. His gait, a remarkably smooth jog, covered distance more quickly than a man could run, and he was nimble enough to weave through the dense wood without faltering. Bach followed smoothly behind them.

  After about ten minutes Fred stopped and set Lily down. “Boss is right,” he said gruffly, swinging down his gun as well. He did not appear to be winded. “They won’t kill them. You saw it yourself.”

  “They just blew up our shuttle. Why should I believe you?”

  Fred tugged on one ear with a thick hand. “Seems to me you got no one else to believe.”

  She pulled her tunic straight, to give herself time to think. Those men had, after all, lowered their guns on seeing Deucalion. Perhaps his Intelligence badge gave him and his companions immunity. “It seems I’m with you whether I want to be or not. All right.” Bach floated watchfully at her back. “I’m still with you then. Who are they? Why do they want to kill me? Or your boss?”

  A branch snapped behind her. She whirled. Fred did not move. Windsor and Stanford appeared, Windsor looking pale and out of breath.

  He paused, leaning against a tree. “Call me Korey,” he said. “Gwyn always used to. It must be the saboteur connection. It’s the only link between us. Someone must finally have decided to be rid of us once and for all.”

  Lily went white, and she felt sick with sudden fear. “Then, even if the others are safe, we just abandoned Hawk to them. I’ve got to go back.”

  Simultaneously, both Fred and Stanford wrinkled their noses and looked to the left. Stanford made a face and took two sidesteps right.

  “Company, boss,” said Fred.

  He came out of the trees, a tall, slender figure, hair muted in the shadows made by the forest’s canopy.

  “Kyosti!”

  His gaze flicked over her, but she knew him well enough, even as changed as he was—especially as changed as he was—to understand that he marked her more by scent than by vision now. He moved to stand close to her and turned to speak a quick sentence in the language of the je’jiri to Windsor.

  Windsor replied and then looked at Lily. “He says that they took the other three men captive and that all twelve of those from the shuttle are on our trail.”

  “And Pinto—he’s alive?”

  Kyosti shuttered his eyes and appeared to take in a breath, or the smell of the air. “Alive,” he said. Strangely, his hands twitched, as if some reflex had taken hold of them, and he hesitated and finally spoke in slow, struggling Standard. “Not so badly hurt. He will live.” It was, clearly, a diagnosis, however general.

  “Thank the Void,” Lily breathed. “Well—Korey. Now what? Who do you think is hunting us?”

  “As far as I know the only people who knew I was hunting you were the ones as hired me—Concord Intelligence. But I can’t believe Yevgeny Basham would turn coat like this. He’s fair, however hard he might be.”

  “I suggest we try to find out once we’re safely on my ship. I have a shuttle at—Bach, what are the coordinates?”

  In Paisley’s voice, Bach reeled them off.

  “Mine’s closer.” Windsor made a hand sign to Fred and Stanford. “We’ll go ahead. They’ll cover the back.”

  “Doesn’t that put them in more danger?”

  “Diplomatic immunity, of a fashion.” He grinned. “Even for two outlaws like Fred and Stanford. Can’t risk damaging trade agreements by offending the honorables who govern in, the Ardakian system.”

  “Which way?” He pointed, and she let him set the pace. He took it at a slow run. Lily did not find it hard to keep up, and she wondered how badly he had ruined his health in the last few years. Kyosti loped effortlessly along beside her. The effect was uncanny: he had never shown such obvious fitness before, or such preternatural alertness. At every three steps he took in a quick breath, scenting, and he never once faltered on the uneven footing of the forest floor. How had he gotten away from the meadow? She did not think the Kyosti she had once known could have done it.

  They came to a ravine hidden in a wrinkle of the low hills, and Windsor turned down it. Of Fred and Stanford’s passage behind them she heard nothing. Wind stirred the trees above, and then the low, hard sound of a ship passing close above grew and thundered and ebbed about them. A moment later, an explosion—not too far, not too close.

  “Shit!” swore Windsor. “Fucking sons of bitches and their whores of fathers with them—” He broke off. “Come on.”

  They scrambled down a steep slope and followed a rushing stream until it curved around a high bank and emptied into a pond at one end of a tiny, circular meadow. The burning remains of a small ship lay strewn across the high grass. Smoke spiraled up to mark its resting place. As they paused at the edge of the clearing to stare, the whine of an engine built in volume behind them.

  Lily faded back into the trees, but Windsor continued to stare, in disgust, or fury. “Come on,” Lily hissed, as if the ship approaching above might hear her if she spoke above a whisper. “We’ll have to double back and try to reach our other shuttle.”

  For a beat, she thought he had not heard her. Finally he turned and gave her a wry, twisted smile, bitter as he usually was, as if life had long since treated him to a cruel joke. “The bastards ruined my credit line for certain now, with that. How the hell do they expect me to pay for it?”

  Meeting his eyes, Lily felt suddenly—not sorry for him, but a sense of compassion, of comradeship, a strange enough thing to feel, after her first acquaintance with him. “Don’t you get a substantial bounty for turning me in? I thought I was worth quite a bit to you.”

  “Looks like you’re worth my life, Ransome.” He slipped into the shadow of a broad-trunked tree as the ship streaked past overhead and dropped another explosive onto the hulk of the stranded ship for good measure, reducing it to an unrecognizable bulk of metal and smoke and spitting fire. “No. My death. Which I guess is worth more to Concord Intelligence.”

  “You don’t have any enemies? From someplace else? Who might have wanted you killed?”

  “Kapellans might want me dead, but they’d never act on it. It’s not their way. Gwyn’s the only one
of us they hated enough to ever try to kill outright. No, these are human ships. And human agents. Only someone from Concord Intelligence would have known my movements, known about you. And only someone who really hated us would have gone this far.” He paused, listening. “Yeah,” he said, but not to her. “We’ll circle back.” His gaze shifted back to Lily. “All right, Ransome. What were those coordinates again?”

  Lily did not like moving in forest. She was used to cleaner lines of sight, used to gauging for corners and set widths of corridor or tunnel and hard surfaces for leaning and pushing off from. Nothing here seemed solid enough to rely on—too much wind, too much extraneous noise, too many curves and gaps and inconstant backdrops. Windsor seemed right at home. Bach sang to himself—Am Abend da es kühle war “In the evening, when it was cool”—at such low volume that she could only hear him because he hovered not two hand’s-breadths from her right ear. Even Hawk appeared unfazed by the way the shadows shifted without warning. And Fred, to her vast surprise, sniffed about several broad tree trunks and then with more speed than grace scrambled up one and vanished from her view. Stanford hoisted the heavy gun Fred had been carrying onto his back and strapped it there, oblivious to its extra weight.

  They had not walked more than ten minutes when Windsor halted her with a raised hand and, pausing, she heard a brief snatch of conversation from ahead.

  Hawk, beside her, said, “Four.”

  Windsor glanced at her. “We’re six,” she said.

  “Send the ’bot up. Each take one.”

  They fanned out. It proved easy enough: a distraction from above, provided by Bach, a quick, controlled move in to get inside their guns, and all four of the soldiers—if that was what they were—were out flat on the ground. It had been a long time since Lily had felt herself to be the least experienced fighter in any group, however small. Even Hawk had dispatched his target with uncharacteristic precision. A je’jiri’s precision.