Sea of Stars (Kricket #2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  I look at it in her hand. “Well,” I say sheepishly, “it’s sort of mine now. Trey gave it to me.”

  She looks startled. “Trey gave you this?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “It’s been in his family forever.”

  “With luck it will remain in it forever.”

  “Here.” She pushes the silver bracelet over my hand, and then gently pushes it over my wrist. The metal grows in size to accommodate the width of my arm as she slides it up onto my bicep. “There,” she says, admiring the look of the silver starcross armband. “Some females wear them there. It’s convenient if you use this hand to throw the starcross.” She holds my opposite hand, crossing it over my chest.

  My fingertips touch the etched silver crest on the armband. The panel opens up and a wickedly sharp star-shaped metal disk emerges to sit upon the cradle, waiting to be thrown. I press it back in, and it hides away once more beneath the crest.

  Charisma holds up the sonic sayzers. “Did you use both of these?”

  “No, just this one.” I indicate the right one.

  She hands it to me. “Here. You can practice with this one, then. I’ll recalibrate the left one for me. Do you need to rest or can we try them out now?” she asks me.

  I glance outside. It’s really dark with no city lights, but the moons and stars are bright. I shrug. “I’m not tired. Let’s try it.”

  She smiles broadly. “We’ll take these and use them as targets.” She picks up the lacquer box with the Crystal Clear Moments figurines inside. “All but this one.” She reaches in and extracts the dancing couple that Trey said she received at her debut swank.

  I laugh. “Trey said you hated that one!”

  “I did hate it,” she replies ruefully. “I thought it resembled Victus, and so it made me sad. But now, I love it. ”

  “Would it be all right if I kept one?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Pick whichever one you want.”

  “Thank you! Should I change?” I ask while gazing down at the lilac gown I’m wearing.

  “We probably won’t practice very long, and it’s not too terribly exerting. I think we’re fine in what we have on—maybe just bring that jacket there.” She points to the black jacket of hers that I borrowed.

  “You don’t mind if I use it?”

  “No! I have several that are very similar to that one. If you want another one, let me know.”

  She gathers the black box and waits for me to retrieve the jacket. When I pull it on, she walks with me to the terrace outside. Taking the staircase that leads to the grounds below, we descend the stone steps to a lovely courtyard. Charisma activates the lighting. Everywhere in the beautiful courtyard, hundreds of floating yellow, round lights the size of baseballs rise up from the ground to hover above us in the air. They hang at different levels in a staggered, firefly pattern; it’s breathtaking and magical.

  With the mountain range of the annexed area in the background, beneath the shine of the moons, Charisma sets up the zero-gravity apparatus and frees all the Crystal Clear Moments into the star chamber. Immediately, the figurines start to perform their tricks for us.

  “Do you know which one you want to keep?” Charisma asks, watching the trift fly around performing daring maneuvers.

  I reach into the pocket of the black jacket and show her the crystal spix that I had previously rescued from the star chamber. “I like the knight.”

  “It suits you,” she says with a grin. Placing the box on the ground, she extracts the sonic sayzer cuffs from it. I lift my wrist for her to attach the right one to me. Immediately, the metal of the sonic sayzer grows and lengthens, covering my wrist to my elbow in a framework of Gothic-looking silver.

  After the fingerless-glove part of it has grown over the back of my hand, Charisma advises, “Move your fingers to enter your security code.” I do as she says, twitching my fingers so that it looks like I’m playing an invisible piano with my right hand. “You can extract the earpiece now,” she advises as she dons the other weapon.

  “Are you ready?” she asks me when I have the earpiece in place.

  “Yes,” I reply. We walk a short distance away from the targets.

  She lifts her hand and concentrates on the shiny quarry ahead of her. When she fires, she hits the ballerina dead in its center, shattering the glass into showering bits. She squeals like a child! Turning to me, her face is a mask of elation and she smiles giddily. “That felt so good! I never would have dreamed that it would be so good!”

  I laugh as she grasps my forearms while jumping up and down. She reaches around me and hugs me impulsively. “You have to kill one too! It’s the best!”

  When she releases me, I laugh some more and say, “I’ll try, but I’m not sure what words to say to get it to work.”

  “I think you should try to shoot the mastoff first,” she says, referring to the mastodon. “It’s wide and it doesn’t move very fast.”

  From somewhere behind us, a fast-moving, falcon-shaped ship sweeps through the dark sky, roaring over the stables and house. It’s hard to see, but the sound of it is like a jet fighter breaking the sound barrier. Trailing it, in definite pursuit, is an Alameeda E-One. The waspish ship shoots blue-colored laser cannons at the falcon ship, trying to bring it down. The falcon ship banks to the left. It comes around to fly directly over the courtyard. As the E-One adjusts to follow it, it suddenly slows its progression when it comes upon us in the center of the courtyard. Allowing the falcon ship to escape, it instead hovers over Charisma and me in an eerie, menacing way.

  Shouts from the Cavars come from every direction when a bright white beam of light hits us in a sickening spotlight. Beside me, Charisma glances my way and whimpers, “Kricket.”

  An instant later, her skin is melting from her bones from a flamethrower directed at her. I scream her name, but it doesn’t help; she’s on fire. A tractor beam lifts me up into the air and I travel toward the belly of the ship.

  “Are you ready?” Charisma asks me. I blink a couple of times. In front of me, the ballerina crystal figurine dances across the zero-gravity sky. I exhale a deep breath, seeing it curl with the icy smoke of a vision.

  I shake my head no. When I find my voice, I shout at her, “Run, Charisma! Tell Trey that they’re here—the Alameeda are here!”

  Charisma hesitates, unable to process what I just said to her. I have to get her moving, so I push her hard in the direction of the house. “Run!” I shout again.

  With terror in her eyes, she asks me, “What about you?”

  “Just go!” I plead. This time she listens to me. She picks up the hem of her dress and she runs toward the house.

  I pick up the hem of my dress too, as I run around the exterior of the house to the front of the estate. When I reach the orchard there, I try to catch my breath. I scan the hills by the pass where we entered the valley. Lifting my shaking right arm, I try to brace it with my left one. My breath comes out in raspy pants as I wait for what seems like an eternity.

  I hear the rumble of the falconlike ship before I see it, but when I do, it flies so quickly over the ridgeline that it is almost impossible to track. Focusing on where that ship had crossed the ridge, I take aim with my sonic sayzer and then a deep breath. As I exhale, I see the Alameeda E-One coming over the crest of the ridge. Breathlessly I say, “The worst, Honey.”

  The recoil from the sonic sayzer lifts me off my feet; I find myself flat on my back looking up at the sky. The wind is knocked out of me, but I sit up anyway. Wheezing for breath, I cringe when I notice a hole in the ridgeline. I missed! Not only that: the E-One has halted its pursuit of the falcon-shaped ship and is now bearing down on me.

  I rise quickly from the ground, lifting my aching arm again and pointing it at the enemy E-One, as it grows closer. “The worst, Honey,” I say the words and I’m knocked over again.

 
Someone grasps me under my shoulders and lifts me up. Trey’s sexy, masculine scent is as much around me as his arms as they go to my waist. He braces my back against his chest and his voice is calm as he says, “Try again.”

  He helps me lift my arm and aim at the Alameeda death ship bearing down on us. I whisper to Trey, “The worst, Honey.”

  Trey absorbs the recoil while the rotorless heli-vehicle in front of us explodes into a huge, flaming fireball. As pieces of the ship fall to the ground, shouts from the Cavars come from all angles. Trey turns so that his body is between the E-One and me as it crashes hard into the dirt, shaking the fruit from the orchard.

  Trey straightens, before turning me around in his arms. He brushes the hair from my face, scanning it to assess my state of mind. I’m numb. I don’t know how I feel right now, other than scared. A loud boom severs the sky again as the falconlike ship circles back around. Bracing myself, I lift my right arm, trying to track it, but Trey grabs my wrist. “It’s a Comantre ship.”

  I lower my arm, relieved that I don’t have to try to take it down. It flies overhead; its jets reverse, causing it to hover for a few moments before it descends from the sky and lands in the paddock by the stable. “Go back to the house,” Trey says softly. “I’m going to see what they want. Make ready. Our position is compromised now. We’ll have to leave within the part.”

  He lets go of me; I sag a little at the loss of him. He walks toward the Comantre ship, while the belly of it opens like a gaping maw. I lose my breath when Giffen emerges down the ramp with a score or more heavily armed Comantre Syndics in his wake.

  I yell to Trey, “Not friendlies!” Lifting my arm, I aim the sonic sayzer at Giffen, whispering, “The worst, Honey.”

  Giffen raises his hand, redirecting the killer sound I throw at him. It ricochets off the grain silo, exploding it into a shower of confetti. Giffen retaliates, throwing energy at me so that I’m knocked down once more. I lie on the ground, dizzy and confused, trying to make my eyes focus on Inium, the moon above us, but the blue orb turns dark and fades away before my eyes.

  CHAPTER 15

  UNSPEAKABLE THINGS

  I rouse to consciousness, feeling a tug on my hair. A large hand pulls the shorn strands of my tresses away from me. The blond mass in his palm curls and disappears. A knife passes in front of my eyes, and then disappears as the person behind me moves away. I try to lift my hands, but they’re shackled around the stiff seat back behind me. Someone has removed the sonic sayzer from my wrist, I realize, as I clench and unclench my fingers.

  “Kricket,” Giffen says from his chair opposite me. We’re both sitting at the table where I’d eaten with Trey and his family only a few hours ago. “Would you like some water?” He lays his hand on his rough, five o’clock shadow, rubbing it thoughtfully over the sharp angles of his jaw. I assess his beard; it’s more in character for him now than the shaven version of him at our last meeting. His golden-brown dreadlocks are pulled back from his shoulders and secured in a ponytail. The Comantre uniform he’s wearing is all wrong. He should have swim trunks on and a volleyball in his hand so all the girlies on the beach can line up to rub sunscreen on his back.

  My mouth is dry. I nod my head. “Water sounds good.” Giffen produces a canteen. Opening it, he takes a sip before setting it down on the table. He pushes it in front of me. I lean forward; my hands behind me rattle the metal shackles against the slats of the chair, causing them to clang. My eyes lift expectantly to Giffen’s, but he doesn’t move to put the canteen to my lips; he slouches back in his seat negligently.

  I understand. I lean back in my seat too, squaring my shoulders against the hard wood. I glance at the man with the knife. He’s moving away to stand by the hearth near the head of the table. I’m surprised that I recognize him. He’s the Comantre conscript who was part of the team that came to remand me to Defense Minister Telek’s office. He called me something when I was with Trey in his apartment on the Ship of Skye. What was it—a baboon—boosha? What was his name—Randal? Rankin? Raspin!

  “I would like some water. Could you get some for me, Raspin?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

  “She’s a corker, that one! Remember me, do ya?” Raspin asks with an ear-splitting grin. It is quickly chased away by an anxious look. He’s worried about something.

  “I remember everyone who calls me a shefty boosha. How’s your mouth?”

  He rubs the auburn-colored stubble on his chin, probably remembering that I elbowed him in the face in the Premiere Palisade’s rail station. “I did not have to cut my hair.” He takes off his cap, and cornrows of wiry copper hair spill down his back.

  He’s one of us—a freak. I’d bet a venish on it. “You’re a lost boy like Giffen, aren’t you? You have the freak gene too, right?” I ask him.

  Raspin moves forward to the long, rectangular table where Giffen and I are seated. With one hand he grips the wood, picking it up. Without much trouble, he pushes the table away from him, over my head. The wood splinters as it crashes into the transparent window wall behind me, spilling the water as well. My heart beats painfully in my chest at the sheer strength of him. “I’m not lost,” he glowers. “But me truluv is. You have to get her fer me.”

  I blink at him as he scowls at me threateningly. “Your truluv?”

  “His girl,” Giffen translates.

  “Who’s your girl?”

  “Astrid is me truluv,” he breathes heavily, raw emotion in every word.

  I blink again. Astrid?

  Giffen clears his throat so that I’ll look at him. “We need you so that we can get Astrid back.”

  I feel dizzy. “Who’s Astrid?” I ask, really needing that water now.

  Giffen’s steady gaze never wavers from me. “Astrid is your sister.”

  “She’s my what?” I think I hit my head too hard.

  “She’s your baby sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister,” I whisper lamely. I have another sister.

  “You do. She has risked everything to extract you from the conflict in the Isle of Skye, but she miscalculated the Alameeda and was taken hostage by them.”

  He’s not lying. “I don’t remember her—she’s nothing to me—”

  Raspin’s face turns red. He picks up a heavy wooden chair and throws it through the glass wall. So many cracks form in the surface of the glass that I can see what is left of the chair only by looking through the hole it made.

  Giffen pulls his wooden chair close to mine; he turns it around so he can straddle it, resting his arms on the seat back. “You’re something to her. You’re her ‘Kick-it.’ That’s what she calls you when she talks about you. If you’d gone with me when I came for you, you would’ve met her.”

  “So she wasn’t in on your plan to kill me before?” I ask with a frown.

  Giffen sighs heavily. “She knew it was a contingency plan so that you wouldn’t be turned over to the enemy and used against us. She was not in agreement with it—she threatened to cut off my . . . she threatened to cut me if I killed you.”

  “Wow. This is quite a change for you, Giffen. Now you’re okay with handing me over to the Alameeda because they have her and you want her back?”

  His eyes narrow at the bad light I just put him in. “We didn’t have any leverage with you before now!” he retorts as justification to his prior plan. “And we didn’t know where your loyalties lie. We had no assurances that you’d work with us. I was not at liberty to tell you about your sister then. We had to protect her identity.”

  “You have no assurances now, either!”

  “I beg to differ. I have all of your friends. All the ones you risked your life to save before,” Giffen threatens.

  “You’re going to blackmail me?”

  He scowls. “I shouldn’t have to! You should want to help your sister who loves you!”

  My mouth hangs open for a moment
before I snap it shut. “Loves me?” I stick out my bottom lip and shake my head with a shrug. “I don’t know her! Where has she been? I didn’t even know who she was until a second ago. Where did she go?”

  “She’s been on Ethar—hidden with us since she arrived here.”

  “When was that?”

  “When your mother died.”

  I try to process what Giffen is saying. “If she’s younger than me, she couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. She couldn’t have gotten here by herself.”

  “Her father brought her.”

  I feel sick and hopeful at the same time, and the fact that I feel hopeful makes me feel sicker. “Her father brought her? You mean our father brought her?”

  He nods, looking uncomfortable. “Pan brought her here when she was almost four floans old.”

  “Water,” I manage to say, begging Giffen with my eyes.

  It’s Raspin who brings it to me; bending down, he tips a canteen to my lips. He’s surprisingly gentle for such a strong, raging knob knocker. When I’ve had enough, I move my lips away. He manages not to spill any of it on me. I can’t yet ask them the only question I want to ask them. I’m too afraid of the answer. Instead I ask, “When you said ‘they’ve been with us,’ where was that? Is there a Valley of Misfit Boys or something?”

  A grudging smile appears on Giffen’s lips. “Pan made a home for us in the Amster Rushes—in the annexed area. Then he set about finding all of us—all the Alameeda males with special talents who were being hunted down and slaughtered—bringing us there. He saved most of our lives.”

  “He must be a saint,” I reply with sarcasm.

  “He is,” Raspin replies, believing every word of it.

  I snort in disgust. “Did he happen to notice when he got to Amster that he was one daughter short?” The bitterness in my voice is extremely apparent.

  “He rarely speaks of you, but when he does, it’s always with the greatest respect and admiration for your sacrifices.”