Yours to Uncover: ES Siren 1

by Mel Teshco

  She took a deep breath. “Sir, I’d like you to give Tristan and I permission to marry.”

  The older man blanched, his lips thinning. “You’d want that, even after learning of his past?”

  “I’ve always listened to my gut, Sir. It’s never let me down before. I believe Tristan is innocent.”

  “Then let’s hope the forty-eight hours gives 1588 time to reflect and regroup. Because there’ll be no second chance for him.”

  Her breath caught, her attention absolute. The Major was warning her. There simply wasn’t room on this ship or Solitaire for prisoners who couldn’t be trusted.

  “In the meantime, you organize the paperwork needed for me to sign consent.”

  Her soul sung, but still, she had to ask. “Sir, no other couple has had to go through the legal hoops.”

  The Major sighed heavily. “True. But when your 1588 kills you, at least I won’t have a mess of paperwork to clean up.” He reached for a sheaf of papers and tapped them into a neat bundle, as if demonstrating his point. “I won’t have people saying you weren’t of sound mind at the time.”

  She nodded. “Of course, Sir. And thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  The older man seemed slightly appeased. “I hope you’re right, Songworth.” He dropped the sheaf and the papers scattered. “It would be a mighty shame to lose someone of his amazing talents. And even worse to lose you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tristan was only vaguely aware of the hum of the giant refrigerators behind the Box, an eight-by-eight metal structure with the most basic necessities. A blanket on the floor, a crude, foul-smelling metal bucket in one corner, and a pitcher that contained unpalatable-looking water.

  When he stood, he could see through slats into the room beyond. If only there was something there to look at. He was in the bowels of the ship, surrounded by nothing but walls and bulkheads, along with noise and more noise. Judging by the frequent, subsonic whine, the Box was located somewhere near the thrusters.

  He pressed his hands to his ears, but he knew that no amount of silence would keep him from slowly losing his mind. It was as though the electric pulses of lockdown had struck at his brain, creating a hairline crack that had drawn out all his repressed memories.

  While he was conscious, he could keep them at bay. He didn’t ever want to revisit the torment of his past. But the moment he slept, the recollections came rushing back, taunting and teasing. His head nodded forward. He jerked it back, forcing himself awake through thick layers of fogginess.

  Except his legs gave out and he dropped onto his ass. When he drew his knees up and folded his arms across them, everything began to fade as his head floated down, down …

  *

  Tristan sucked air into his lungs. His arms burned and his thighs shook as he carried his heavily pregnant wife to what had once been the hospital, the building now a caricature of its former role as a place for those in need.

  He gritted his teeth, every muscle and tendon straining. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a decent feed. He was weak, running on adrenalin alone. Mercifully, his wife had passed out. The pain of labor, which should have been over and done with hours ago, had only intensified.

  It was clear something was wrong, but he had no idea what. All he knew was that his wife needed urgent medical attention before it was too late.

  An old burger wrapper skidded across the grimy, dusty road. Despite the dire circumstances, his stomach growled. He ignored the cramping in his belly, more than aware his wife was in a hell of a lot more pain.

  He glanced down, his throat thick and his pulse leaping. God, she was pale. “Nearly there,” he croaked, his voice barely recognizable.

  An old man ambling perhaps twenty yards ahead glanced back at the sound of Tristan’s voice. His empty eyes lit up for a moment, then dulled. He’d probably hoped for an easy mark to rob, but evidently knew better than to tempt fate. Tristan might be starving and weak, but he was still a big man, and he would fight to the death to protect his wife and unborn child.

  The man’s shoulders hunched in his threadbare jacket. He turned his wizened face away and hurried off—probably back to a crowded nest, where the fool imagined there was safety in numbers. Security on the dying Earth was almost impossible to gain, and all too easily taken away.

  Despite his appearance—or perhaps because of it—the old man must be a first-class thief if he’d been accepted into a pack.

  Tristan’s breath bellowed out. He’d been reduced to little better himself. He’d done whatever he had to just to keep his wife fed and in reasonable health with their baby growing in her womb.

  And it might yet be all for nothing, a dark voice whispered.

  He swallowed back a snarl of rage. He wouldn’t let her die. He couldn’t. She was all he had. And their baby was their only light in a world that was rotting around them.

  But as he rounded the corner of a big, ugly old brick building that had once been a prestigious bank, the last of his hope and energy ebbed away.

  The hospital, four buildings away, had a queue of shabby, hollow-eyed patients at its doors. He’d have a fight on his hands if he even considered cutting to the front of the line.

  But what other choice did he have?

  He shuffled forward, wondering how the hell he’d find the strength to keep going.

  His mind churning with worry, he failed to register the soft tread behind him. A sharp jab pierced his shoulder—a fucking needle, he realized dully, his world immediately turning fuzzy, his muscles going weak. Even without looking, he knew it was the old man he’d stupidly dismissed as harmless.

  He managed to hold onto his wife as he went down, toppling backwards so that he took the full brunt of the fall.

  *

  He woke with a start, his breath heaving in and out as he fought to return to the present. And although the walls of the Box seemed to close in around him, that was the least of his concerns right then.

  He hadn’t killed his wife and unborn child!

  He wasn’t a killer. He hadn’t lost the plot. He’d been ambushed and set up.

  Whoever had injected him had wanted to disable him. Which meant he hadn’t turned into a raging monster.

  He ran a hand over his face, which was slicked with sweat. His mind was racing. Why had he been drugged? Why not just killed?

  Someone else had murdered his family … and framed him. But why? It didn’t make sense. His only real talent was his art—

  His breath shuddered out. His hands fisted.

  Lieutenant Zane. Who else would have had the audacity and cunning to act out such a vile plan? The soldier would have done his research and realized there was no way to persuade Tristan to join the mission to Solitaire. Not if it meant leaving his family behind.

  Zane had openly gloated about having one of the best artists on the planet onboard the Siren.

  Tristan drew in a slow breath. He rubbed at his temple, pressure building within. If what he suspected was true, Zane had not only killed his family, ensuring that Tristan had no one to keep him on Earth, he’d pinned the murders on him, forcing him to choose between the death penalty or joining the ES Siren’s mission to Solitaire.

  He’d played right into the lieutenant’s hands.

  The noise that came from deep within him, something between a scream and a bellow of rage, ricocheted around the four walls of the Box.

  *

  Rita’s footsteps rang out sharply in the bowels of the ship. Many onboard called this part of the Siren “No-Man’s-Land”, and for good reason. Towards the rear of the ship, the thrusters were impossibly loud. The noise would drive the sanest of men into insanity.

  Prisoners would do anything to avoid being subjected to the Box. Soldiers refused to visit this place, other than to shove half-sized rations at whichever prisoner was suffering through their forty-eight hours.

  Rita strode away from the ear-piercing whine of the propulsion system. Ducking beneath a bulkhead
, she approached the huge refrigerators that stored the bulk of the Siren’s food.

  Her thoughts dissolved the moment she took in the Box. There was no sound coming from it, though even if Tristan was awake, she doubted she’d hear him over the thrusters and the refrigerators’ engines, which also poured out horrid streams of heat. She swiped a sticky strand of hair from her face before dragging the crude skeleton key off her belt.

  Her hands shaky, she finally managed to thrust the key into the lock. There were no sophisticated scanners here. The door gave a loud snick and swung outward. She stepped back, dropping onto her knees at the sight of Tristan, curled up against the back wall, his legs drawn up and his head on his forearms.

  It was probably the only position that allowed him to sleep.

  She reached forward and touched his shoulder, then gently shook him. “Tristan, it’s me, Rita. Wake up.”

  As he slowly regained consciousness, a gasp formed in her throat. She swallowed it down. Tristan was different somehow. She sensed he was lighter—and not because his rations had been halved.

  She studied him, barely registering his whiskered face and rumpled hair. Was it possible his time in the Box had forced him to face his demons?

  “You came.” His voice was rusty with disuse.

  She nodded. “I did.”

  His eyes flared. “I thought … after everything I’d said, you’d given up on me.”

  “You really thought you’d get rid of me that easily?”

  A grin curled the corners of his mouth. “I should have known better, right?”

  She put a hand out. As his grip enclosed hers and he staggered to his feet, she murmured, “Yes, you should have.”

  Tristan swayed for a second or two. But his stare was intense, and wholly focused on her. “Rita, I’m sorry for trying to push you away. I thought—”

  He closed his eyes, swayed some more. Noting his pallid face and the grooves at the edges of his mouth, she said, “Save your strength. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”

  He managed a chuckle. “Feeling better? This is the best I’ve felt in fucking years … Since …”

  Since killing your wife and child?

  No, she couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe it. Tristan had all the makings of a true gentleman. A compassionate man, through and through. He was the last man on the planet who’d commit such an atrocity.

  She steadied him, her arm going around his waist. “Easy now. Let’s get you to the showers.”

  The soldier who’d escorted her to the lieutenant’s office waited in the engine and storage room. He nodded at her as she stepped through, eyeing the prisoner with open curiosity.

  At least it wasn’t hatred. She had no doubt many would believe that the whites prisoner, who was already a supposed ticking timebomb, should step out of an airlock after his outburst at the bar.

  Bastards. Who were they to judge Tristan? Had they even tried to get to know him? Were his paintings the only thing that made him worth their while?

  The walk to the prisoners’ communal showers was slow. Rita had heard about the walk from the Box, the prisoner seeming uncoordinated and disoriented. It wasn’t just the solitary confinement that was to blame, it was also the noise and the enclosed space.

  The powers-that-be undoubtedly knew forty-eight hours was more than enough time to damage a person’s mind. She smirked, wondering what those same powers-that-be would think of the fact that Tristan’s state of mind had actually improved in that time.

  Tristan stopped and she automatically stilled beside him. He turned to her, one eyebrow quirked. “Shower time. Care to watch?”

  Their escort snickered and she shot the soldier an aggrieved glare. He wisely shut his mouth and looked away. Rita stared up at the man who, despite his incarceration, was so damn handsome it was criminal. The double meaning might have been amusing if she wasn’t so in love with the man.

  She clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and her mind reeling.

  Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

  Saying it out loud to the Major had been one thing, but thinking it—knowing it to be true—was a whole new kettle of fish.

  Tristan frowned. “Rita … sweetheart, is everything okay?”

  She nodded slowly. Her hand fell away. “Yes. Of course.” She stepped back. Everything else could wait until it was just the two of them. “Just … get clean, okay?”

  He smirked, though his eyes were serious, assessing. “I stink that bad, huh?”

  The soldier snickered again. But Rita was already turning and escaping the man who read her mind all too easily. Tristan’s voice trailed after her. “Guess that was a yes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Despite what had happened the last time she’d visited the bar, Rita found herself back there again the next day. At least this time, during the day, she had the place half to herself.

  She’d never been a drinker, had rarely consumed anything stronger than coffee—when she’d been able to get her hands on some—but just then she needed something that packed a bigger punch than the acid grog they served here. Even the rocket fuel they served at the fights would have been welcome.

  She ordered a beer. Whatever. She’d take what she could get. She couldn’t spend another minute in her cabin waiting for the paperwork to arrive from the Major’s office. Jesus, she hadn’t even told Tristan of the process she’d put in place.

  What if, during his time in the Box, his feelings for her had changed? He’d made love to her then told her it was all or nothing. Now that all was an option, what if he discovered it wasn’t really what he wanted?

  She took a deep draft of her beer before slamming it back onto the table. The liquid sloshed onto her jeans and she peered down at them abstractedly. She needed to take better care of her clothes. She had two pairs of jeans and both were faded and worn. How long would they last?

  Would they discover a silkworm or something on this new planet? Or maybe someone would find a cotton plant. Transporters would bring more mouths to feed than they would supplies. Unity would have to find other ways to survive on Solitaire, without relying on a dying Earth to support them.

  She took another gulp of her beer, grimacing at the taste. Maybe being in love was overrated? It was making her melancholic. Fretful. Not to mention totally insecure.

  “It must be my lucky day.”

  She jerked her head up, dragging her thoughts back to the present. The soldier she’d danced with the night before was grinning down at her, his twin dimples even more pronounced under the stronger lights that represented daylight. She forced a smile. “Stuart. Hi.”

  His grin dimmed a little. “Is this a bad time?”

  Yes.

  She shook her head. “Of course not.” She looked down at her beer, then back up at the soldier. “It’s just that …”

  “The lieutenant has staked his claim?”

  She swiped a hand over her face. “Oh, god. Is that what everyone is saying?”

  Stuart put his hands out. “Hey, no. Not at all. In fact, they’re saying …”

  Her head cocked to the side. “Yes?”

  He shuffled his feet, looking terribly embarrassed. “That you and a whites prisoner are getting it on.”

  She nodded. “Then they’d be right.”

  Stuart’s congeniality dissolved in seconds. “You’d choose a violent nutcase over an officer?”

  Her fingers all but cramped around her glass. Hadn’t she had the same reaction from the Major? “You don’t know enough to be making judgments about Tristan.”

  Stuart backed off, his high opinion of her clearly gone. “Whatever. Enjoy your beer.”

  Yeah, will do, buddy.

  She watched him leave, wondering what the hell had possessed her to come here a second time. God, the place was filthy. She’d organize a clean-up crew to come here first thing in the morning.

  She swallowed the last of her beer, endeavoring not to gag, before she plunked her empty glass onto the bar an
d left the room.

  Drinking may be out of the question, but she could still lose herself in a good novel.

  The government hadn’t been able to save all the print books in the city libraries. Those that hadn’t been vandalized in the first wave of violence had been stolen and burned—no doubt to help keep families warm.

  Rita sighed. She remembered being a little girl and opening a print book. It had had a scent all of its own. She was only glad she had access to her portacomp’s entertainment database and could download whatever ebook caught her fancy.

  But it took less than an hour to realize no fairy tale was going to make up for her real-life love story, such as it was. Her every thought centered around Tristan. What was he doing at that moment? Had he showered? Dressed? Was he thinking about her?

  She shut down her portacomp and swung out of bed. She had to see him, had to tell him how she really felt. He had to know they could make things work, no matter the odds. Odds that now drastically favored them, thanks to her talk to the Major.

  She dragged a brush through her hair. Her eyes were bright in the mirror, filled with yearning, and her face was flushed, giving her every inch the appearance of a young woman in love.

  Her brush clattered back into its place beneath the mirror. She’d leave her hair down this once, just how Tristan liked it.

  She left her room, her pulse racing and her teeth biting down on her bottom lip. Doubt assailed her. What if Tristan threw her proposal back in her face?

  No, she wouldn’t even consider that possibility. There was a future for them. And she knew he wanted it as badly as she did.

  She rubbed her arms as she walked the darkened corridors. Despite the regulated temperature, and her cardigan, she felt inexplicably cold. Anxious. And more than a little bit paranoid.

  She turned her wrist to the identifier that would grant her access to level D. A voice froze her in the act, every muscle cramping in disbelief.

  “Just the woman I wanted to see.”

  She turned slowly. “Zane.” Her voice cracked out his name. Little wonder her woman’s intuition had made her feel so jumpy.