“What was it like?”
Rayna sighed; seemed like there was no avoiding this. “I grew up on Terrene. Both my parents had been taken from Earth. They were slaves until Rescue found them.” She turned back her jumpsuit sleeve and yanked at the undershirt until she found a likely spot, then she used the knife to tear a hole in the thin fabric.
“Had they been wiped?”
“Everyone is wiped.” She worked her fingers into the hole and ripped, her jaw clenched, not caring that the sound echoed in the dark like the tearing of thunder, until the bottom two-thirds of her sleeve jerked free. She tore the sleeve into two thick strips, wishing only that the cloth in her hands was a little Gray neck.
“Maybe that’s a good thing.” Anger tinged Lainie’s voice in the dark. “Sucks seeing all this shit with open eyes.”
“No.” Rayna swallowed hard and focused on securing the shiv in its sheath against the skin of her left forearm, the handle snugged close to her wrist. Otherwise she would see the scars on her mother’s face, the limp that made her father tight with agony, the evidence of scars in both of them that no one could see. “Rescue told me they’d been Taken together. The Grays punished them, wiped them until almost nothing was left. When Rescue finally found them and deprogrammed them, nothing could be recovered. They couldn’t be returned to Earth so they ended up on Terrene. They were broken, never the same.”
“But at least they had each other.” Lainie sat up in the bunk, staring at her. “They had you.”
Rayna snatched the knife from its nest with her right hand and held it up in front of her face, testing the ease of access to her weapon. “It wasn’t enough.”
A door clanged open at the far end of the barracks, flooding the first few bunks with light. The prisoners at that end groaned and tossed in protest. Rayna and Lainie disappeared under their blankets, hid themselves except for a tiny fold that allowed them to see what was happening.
Beneath the blanket, Rayna slid the knife back in its hiding place and slowly searched the mattress around her body for the other item she’d taken out to look at tonight. The data card had been in her lap as she worked on the shiv, but now her questing fingers could not find it. She began to sweat.
The guards came down the line, big, bright handheld lightcells swinging from side to side. Every third or fourth bunk they would stop, jerk the blanket off some poor, shivering soul and throw the light on her. That would be the prisoner’s signal to stand up and turn around. The light would sweep over prisoner and mattress, blanket and pillow before she was allowed to go back to her interrupted sleep.
Shit, shit, shit! Rayna shifted as quietly as she could in her bunk, her hand sweeping first one side, then the other. Where is the mulaak thing? She reached out, her fingertip touched something, then she heard the tiniest tick! as the card hit the floor on the far side of her bunk. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
Lainie turned her head to stare, her eyes wide with panic. Rayna shook her head. The guards were halfway down the barracks now, well within sight, though the shadows were still thick at this end of the room. She had to pick up that card; there was no leaving it on the floor in hopes they wouldn’t see it.
She ducked down under the blanket, pulling her pillow behind her to serve as cover. Rolled into a ball in the center of the bed, she and the pillow combined to form a single large person. She crawled on her belly under the blanket, keeping her arms and legs tucked in tight, and peeked over the side of the mattress. In the dark it was impossible to see the floor, much less where the data card might be in the gloom. The screen had gone dark; Lainie might even have deactivated it, but she couldn’t take the chance the lightcells would pick it up.
She could hear the guards coming closer, see the light sweeping her way. She reached down, touched the cold, dusty floor, stretched. Nothing. Nothing. Shit! She shifted, reached again. There! Her fingers curled around the card and scooped it up into her palm. She brought it under the blanket and stashed it inside her jumpsuit, in the waistband of her underwear, then zipped up and made sure all the evidence of her earlier work was tucked out of sight, too.
And then they were there. “You. Number A578. Up.”
Rayna stood in the glare of the lightcells. Did her best to seem blank and disoriented.
“Turn around.”
She did as she was told, praying she hadn’t left any detail unattended. The light swept up, down.
Across the mattress.
Across the floor.
Nothing.
Thank God. Nothing.
The light moved on to the other side of the aisle and soon enough the guards left them alone. They’d found nothing in the barracks, but Rayna was on notice. Sleep wouldn’t come easy in this place.
“Perai, that was close, huh?”
Rayna had to bite her tongue to hold back a groan. Just because she wasn’t asleep didn’t mean she wanted to talk. She grunted in response.
“Ray. You’re wrong, you know.”
Jesus. “Go to sleep.”
“You said it wasn’t enough. But your parents had more than most people have.”
She couldn’t see the girl’s face in the huddle of thin cloth in the bunk across from her, but she could hear the intensity in her voice. The kid had grown up hard; she yearned for something she’d never had. She couldn’t know that was just a dream some mediamixer had spun to entertain the gullible.
“You never saw my parents,” Rayna said at last. “What they had didn’t help them—it hurt them. Badly. Be careful what you wish for.”
The kid huffed. “You know what? I used to think like you. I used to think love made you weak. Being a part of the Shadowhawk changed my mind. Stick around long enough—maybe Cap will change your mind, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Executive Officer of the Shadowhawk stood at the edge of the D-mat pad in Cargo Bay One and considered the ship’s Chief Engineer. Kwan’s lip was split and bleeding, his left eye blackened and swelling. His black hair was matted with blood, and his clothes were torn and dirty. But the engineer was grinning, his arm wrapped protectively around a tall thermocase the size of –
“A matrix?” Mo breathed. “How?”
Javin Darto and two massive blond strangers Mo didn’t recognize helped Kwan move the case off the pad before he finally looked up to answer. “Won it in a Slash game.”
Mo crossed his arms over his chest. “Say again?”
Kwan must have caught his expression, so he filled in the details. “Well, not exactly. I won the credits for it in a Slash game. The loser wasn’t so happy.” Which, Mo thought, explained the injuries and the two giants hovering like the Angels of Vantyr behind Kwan. “Then we hit up a tech/mech shop I know and got lucky.” Kwan found his grin again and patted the case. “This little baby is fully grown and ready to roll. All I need to do is plug ’er in.”
Mo suddenly realized he was no longer interested in how the Chief Engineer had managed it. He just knew that Kwan was here with a fully-functioning matrix and the ’hawk could be under way in a matter of hours to rescue her captain. For the first time since Sam had disappeared he took a decent breath.
“How long?”
Kwan shrugged. “Two-three hours.”
“Do I have to remind you the captain is in Vort’s hands, on his way to Madras?”
Kwan shoved a hand through his hair and winced as it came back bloody. “Two hours. But can I get a shower first?”
Mo felt a twinge of something that might have been conscience. “I’ll send Doc Berta to your cabin to take a look at you.”
The engineer grinned as he gestured at his companions to move the case. “Nah. She’ll just waste my time. When I’m done I’ll take some painkillers and sleep until we get to Madras.”
Mo nodded in approval and headed back to the bridge to give the orders to make way for the C5 jump node. He still had received no confirmation from Gabriel that the extractor had received his first message, but he sent another one anyway, s
aying they were on their way. It should arrive a day or so ahead of them. And he could only hope they were all in time to help Sam before Vort turned him over to ConSys.
Sam.
You have to get up, Sam.
He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to lie here, not moving, not breathing, until the pain stopped. He suspected the only way that would happen was if he died. He didn’t mind.
Fuck that. Get up, Sam.
Funny. The voice urging him to save himself wasn’t his own. It was in his head, like it was his, but it was hers. Rayna’s. Right now, it was fucking annoying. ’Cause he just wanted to lie here. And die.
Get your ass UP. NOW!
Shit! He rolled from his side to his hands and knees, his head hanging between his shaking arms, and stayed there, swaying. He could not envision moving any further—even raising his head brought on a wave of dizzy nausea so severe he thought maybe his entire stomach might erupt out of his throat. He dry-heaved into the blood-stained tee-shirt lying next to the pallet, nothing left to bring up but his guts, and collapsed back down to the fetal position that seemed to be his only refuge.
Concussion, possible skull fracture and brain damage floated through his mind, along with broken ribs as pain stabbed through his torso and possible internal injuries as the dull ache in his kidneys and the burning in his lower abdomen indicated worsening problems. God, he wanted to stay down. But that voice in his head started up again.
If you don’t get up, I’ll never see you again. And I want to see you again. So get up, you stupid son of a bitch.
And now he wasn’t sure who was talking, her or him.
After a long while, he tried again, agony in every movement. This time, he made it to his knees, his hands walking up the wall to keep his upper body upright. The room spun for a moment, then settled into place. Progress.
Still, he didn’t trust himself to walk the distance to the far wall and water. So he crawled across the filthy floor, avoiding the areas where he’d puked his guts out over the last twenty-four hours—he hadn’t always made it to the drain in time. He should have just stayed where the water was, chained to the wall by the drain, but it was cold, so cold on the plasteel deck, and he’d always found his way back to the pallet to curl up under what passed for a blanket. He hadn’t had the strength or presence of mind to move the pallet.
He barked out a laugh. Idiot. Now that pounding in his head was not only a concussion but dehydration, too, possibly serious enough to kill him.
He was trembling all over by the time he reached the water bucket. There was maybe enough to fill the dipper sloshing around in the bottom of the metal container, slimy, cloudy stuff that smelled of mold. His throat ached with need at the sight of it. He drank every drop and still it wasn’t enough. If they didn’t come soon to give him more . . . He refused to finish the thought. They would come. They needed him alive.
Sam fell back against the wall—perai, that was freezing!—to catch his breath. He eyed the return trip to the pallet. What was it—three meters? Four? The thought of crossing that distance exhausted him. Just stand up, he thought. Walk. Like a man.
“Portal’s balls, it stinks in here! What a fucking animal!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s puked everywhere!” A boot slammed into Sam’s hip. “Get the hell up! We ought to make you clean this place up before we take you out, you shalssiti pultafa!”
Rough hands grabbed both arms and hauled him to his feet. He fought his stomach for control as the room swam around him.
“Stand up! You think we want to carry your stinking ass?”
“Can’t.” His voice was rusty with disuse. And he tried, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.
The guard on his left pulled his arm over a burly shoulder and swore again. “We’re wasting time. I’m going to throw him in the shower. Call the galley crew to clean this mess up, then find me. The boss is waiting.”
The guard pulled Sam’s arm tight around his shoulder, gripped him around the waist and took off through the cargo bay and into the ship’s corridors. Sam was vaguely aware they were not headed toward the bridge this time, but into the bowels of the ship, toward the crew quarters. He willed himself to note his surroundings, to put strength into his legs, but his mind was obscured by fog and his body unresponsive to his call. He might be one-on-one with this guard, but escape was impossible. He needed water and food and days of healing. Or a hypo full of stims.
They made the head at last and Sam was dumped in the first of a line of shower tubes. He collapsed in a heap of black and blue skin and aching bones on the tile at the bottom of the tube and looked up at his captor.
“Well?” The man gestured at the controls. “You don’t expect me to strip you and scrub you down, do ya? Portal’s balls in a fucking vise!”
Okay. Okay, he could do this. He braced his heels and walked his hands up the wall behind him until he was standing, his backside on the wall supporting him. He stripped off what was left of his grimy clothes and threw them outside the tube. Then he shut the door to begin the sequence.
The lights and the heat went on. Oh, gods! He shivered as the warmth blanketed his skin. He used the depil first. No reason for it, except maybe he needed to feel civilized, and he’d always shaved first. The stubble on his cheeks had grown to a genuine beard. He wanted it gone.
Then he pumped the foam cleanser into his hand and raked it through his matted hair, reveling in the clean, citrusy smell. He repeated the process, cleaning carefully around the knots and gashes, watching his hands come away bloody. More foam, covering every centimeter of his battered body, his hands tallying every bruise, every cracked bone, every break in the skin, seeking to cleanse not only his body of blood and filth, but his mind of memory and pain.
At last he hit the pad for “rinse” and the water came down like a blessing, taking the blood and the filth, if not the memories and the pain, and washing them down the drain. He opened his mouth under the stream and gulped at the life-giving liquid, desperately thirsty, but the rinse sequence was limited and wouldn’t repeat. He wanted to be clean above all, so he scrubbed until all trace of that cell he’d nearly died in was obliterated.
When the water stopped flowing, the dryer came on, the heated air blowing like the desert wind on Savagne. Sam was ready to step out of the tube in less than thirty seconds.
His guard tossed him clean clothes. “Cover that shit up.”
“Yeah, you’re going to meet your new masters at the Fleet station.” The other man held a large water pak. “You want to look your best.”
Sam dressed quickly, suddenly feeling vulnerable. His gaze kept returning to that plastic envelope of water.
He waved a hand at the liquid. “That for me?”
The guard lifted his chin. “What makes you think so, pultafa?”
“No reason,” he said with a shrug. “But I could sure use a drink. Do you mind?”
The guard considered him, a cruel smile teasing his lips. Sam swayed as he waited, barely able to stand, but he was damned if he would show any weakness in front of this pimple on the ass of the galaxy.
The guard who had carried him from the cell snatched the pak from the other’s hand. “For fuck’s sake, give it to him. He’s ready to fall out. We don’t have time for this shit, and I’m tired of carrying his ass.”
Sam’s hands shook as he held the straw to his cracked lips and drank. But he was careful; he made himself drink slowly so he didn’t spill a drop. The cool liquid washed over his tongue and down his constricting throat like a healing balm, and he groaned with relief. As deliberate as he tried to be, the pak was gone in seconds, but so was the fog that had filled his head. The trembling in his legs had nearly stopped. And when the guards grabbed his arms to hustle him out into the corridor, he could almost keep up with them on his own.
They headed back the way they had come—at least as far as Sam could tell. He was clearer now, but he hadn’t been able to focus enough earlier to be certain. The guess was conf
irmed when they passed back into the cargo bay. He tensed—damned if he would go back in that fucking cell!
“Relax!” The guard who had already shown him some sympathy continued to read him. “You’re getting off this ship today. Not that it’ll help you any.”
They turned toward another section of the bay, toward where the lights indicated the loading hatches on the port side of the hold.
“We’re on Madras?” The Master of the Octagon was smaller than the ’hawk; she was an atmospheric lander. No dematerialization system. Vort would have to put her on the ground to hand him over.
His guard confirmed it. “Spacedock II.”
“Why? You got a date?” The guard on his other arm growled in frustration and pushed him forward. “Shut the fuck up and walk.”
As they approached the loading area, Sam could see Vort was waiting for him. The fighter was grinning in triumph, relishing the moment.
“Well, don’t we clean up nice!” Vort reached out to touch his clean, beardless chin, and, gods help him, Sam flinched. Vort laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Sammy, I wouldn’t want to mess with that pretty face now. ConSys Intelligence is just smart enough to ask questions. I suspect I’ll have to concoct some sort of story about how vicious you are as it is.”
“I don’t care what lies you tell, Vort, just as long as I don’t have to see you again.”
Vort grinned. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem, my friend. They’re going to put you away for the rest of your natural life. Which, given the number of your enemies in Hellsmouth Prison, shouldn’t be too long.”
Hellsmouth would be where they’d send him, of course. On a frozen planet at the bitter ass end of the inhabited galaxy. No parole. No escape. No end to the misery except in death. Sam hadn’t given much thought to what would happen to him once the government in control of half of the organized systems owned him. Now the weight of it settled on him like so much living rock.
“Yes, I can see you finally understand how this is going to end.” Vort stood toe-to-toe with him. “After all the grappling and the scrapping and the blood between us, Murphy, I’m going to win. Glory. Halleluieah.”
Fools Rush In (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 3) Page 22
