The Star King

by Susan Grant

“Put on—”

  “I need privacy,” she said, stalling for a way to investigate the room without the guards looking over her shoulder.

  “I stay.”

  Pointedly turning her back to unknown pairs of eyes, she traded her tunic for the sparkly white sleeveless dress, and gave the hem a single impatient jerk. The dang thing was as short as the tunic. Fortunately the neckline was just as high, hiding the fact that she’d removed the medallion from her chain.

  The short zealot collected her discarded clothing and backed toward the entryway. “Lie down,” he said. “On back.”

  Great. She shot a weary glance at the viewscreen, and reminded herself for the hundredth time that her escape plan depended on a convincing performance of docility and compliance. If she tried to run or fight the guards, they’d bind her arms and legs, rendering her completely helpless.

  Only after she had settled onto the soft mattress did the double doors slam closed. Then a grating noise rumbled from behind them. A bar or something similar was being used as a lock. Old-fashioned, compared to her previous quarters, but just as effective.

  Laid out like a human sacrifice, she stared at the ceiling. It was decorated with a starkly realistic painting of the galaxy’s core. Streamers of white and yellow and red fanned out from its center, reminding her of a bloody cracked egg. She swallowed and glanced away.

  The silence, the waiting, became oppressive. Her arms and legs trembled. A wonder that I have any adrenaline left, she thought glumly. To keep fear at bay, she went over her plans. First she’d feed into Sharron’s fantasies. Then, as soon as he reached a vulnerable state of arousal, she’d ram her knee into his groin for all she was worth. Then she’d finish him off. She had been trained in selfdefense in the air force, and although she hadn’t practiced the moves in nearly two decades, she knew that the heel of her palm could still shatter a nose, and that knuckles rammed into a throat could crush a trachea. Even if she didn’t kill Sharron outright, with the dazed state of his followers, she had a chance of escaping before he recovered. Not being a mindless zombie would give her a mental advantage over them all, she hoped with a quick morbid laugh.

  The bar outside the door rattled. Her chest squeezed so tightly that she could hardly breathe. A breeze suggested that the doors had opened and closed. Thuds of booted feet stepping toward her confirmed it.

  Sharron had entered the room.

  She lifted her head to peek at the cloaked, hooded figure approaching the bed. Patience. Her only hope lay in accuracy, in surprise—and timing.

  The cult leader paused to scrutinize the viewscreen, as if he liked performing in front of an audience and wanted to make sure the camera was running. Creep. She braced herself when he resumed his confident strides. Without a word, he lowered his big frame to hers. Cool cloth billowed around her, the scent of burned incense concealing his punishing physical strength. The terror of being raped destroyed her fragile calm, and she plowed her left knee into giving male flesh.

  Sharron’s breath exploded in a hearty oomph. “Great Mother—” he said in a gasp.

  Yes! She’d done damage. She jerked her thumbs upward, aiming for his eyes. But he snatched her wrists and used his body to squash her into the mattress like an unrepentant bug. She instantly regretted her too-early, fear-driven attack. Bucking, she twisted under his weight. One leg came almost loose, but he pinned her with his muscular thighs. Finally she wrenched a fist free, throwing her weight into the swing.

  “By all that is holy,” he whispered loudly. “Jas, it’s me.”

  Her arm froze in midair. “R-Rom?”

  Familiar golden eyes peered at her from beneath the rumpled hood. Joy exploded in her heart. She flung her arms around his shoulders, and his mouth came down hard over hers. Molding herself to him, she shuddered with the raw emotion in his fierce, passionate embrace.

  He clamped her head in his big hands and groaned, the sound vibrating in her chest. But just as she lost herself in his kiss, he seemed to remember where they were and abruptly pulled away. Love and worry pierced his gaze.

  And pain.

  “I hurt you.” She twisted her hands in the fabric of his cloak. “I thought you were him—Sharron. He’s alive, Rom. Alive!”

  “I know,” he whispered, and pressed one finger to her lips. “The viewscreen. It may or may not be transmitting.”

  “But how did you get here?” she mumbled anxiously. “How did you find me? Did he see you?”

  “Answers later.” He regarded her solemnly, stroking warm fingers over her face. His eyes were liquid gold, molten. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” he said in a thick whisper.

  She brushed her knuckles over his cheek, simply nodding, while she held her breath to stave off tears.

  “We have little time.” Rom eased his weight off her and again became disciplined. “Sharron and his elders are in the prayer chamber. I hope they’ll be there for some time yet. If we’re going to get out, we have to do it now.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  He clasped her hands in his and helped her to her feet. “I need you to play religious convert.” He produced a wadded gray cloak. “Think you can?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She shakily smoothed back her hair. “I’ve become a regular Greta Garbo.”

  He cocked his head questioningly.

  “Watch.” She demonstrated the meek shuffle that had kept her alive so far. His eyes gleamed in silent approval as he handed her a pair of slippers. Earning the respect of this seasoned warrior was a compliment like no other.

  Swiftly they fastened the garment Rom had brought with him over her white dress, arranging the hood over her hair. He withdrew a laser pistol from the folds of his cloak and peered into the corridor. “Clear,” he said, beckoning her into the deserted hallway. “Now up.”

  “Up?” she asked blankly. She’d assumed they’d bolt down one corridor or the other.

  He poked his gun in the air. A skylight-sized opening gaped just above their heads. “An access panel to the ventilation system,” he said.

  A hand thrust out of the hole. Jas jumped backward. Thick fingers wriggled invitingly, and her gaze tracked up a muscular forearm to the galactic version of a big blond Swede. “Muffin!” she choked out.

  “Up we go.” Rom slapped his hands around her hips, hoisting her into his bodyguard’s grasp.

  Muffin pulled her into a narrow, gloomy passageway. She scooted backward in the air duct, allowing Rom room to climb in after her. He kicked up a snowy layer of dust while he refastened the panel over the opening. She muffled a sneeze.

  Rom rotated in the cramped space and let Muffin take the lead down the dusky tunnel. Rom fell in behind her. The metal flooring abraded her knees, and she tripped on the hem of her cloak several times as they navigated through what seemed like miles of ductwork.

  “I was in the middle of calling you when they drugged me,” she said.

  “Thank the Great Mother. That’s how I knew something had happened. I found your travel bag and your tube of paintings at the Romjha. Wherever you were, I knew you were there against your will; you’d never willingly leave your artwork behind. When I found that woman’s card I guessed what had happened.”

  Beela’s card! “Thank God for that. Who else is with you?”

  “Zarra’s outside,” Rom said. “He’s guarding a couple of borrowed starspeeders. I wanted to bring Gann and the others, too, but couldn’t risk a large group.”

  “Three’s still a good number. Do you have an extra gun? I’ll cover you and Muffin when you go after Sharron.”

  “I’m not going after Sharron.”

  Incredulous, she shot a glance over her shoulder. “His death was what made your exile bearable. How can you leave here and live with yourself knowing he’s still alive?”

  His reply was barely audible above sudden whirr of the air through the ducts in which they crawled. “When I came here and learned Sharron still lived, the craving to avenge my brother was unimaginable. But
I had a choice, a choice between you and Sharron. I chose you.”

  “He has antimatter bombs.”

  That met with a few seconds of silence.

  “The braggart’s still glorying in his empty threats,” Muffin remarked to Rom. “He doesn’t have them. They’re too complicated for anyone to reconstruct.”

  Jas persisted. “He said he’d strap me to one and send me to the center of the galaxy.”

  Rom’s tone was hard, edgy, and not to be contradicted. “Whether or not Sharron’s tinkering with antimatter isn’t our immediate concern. Getting out of here is. Now listen closely. Our starspeeders are parked outside the compound. If we get separated, go out the front entrance and head for the trees. It’s below freezing, but you won’t be outside for long. You’ll see one peak that’s higher than the rest. Head for it. Keep going until you see the ships. If all goes as planned, Muffin and Zarra will take one and we’ll take the other. But if anything should happen to me, you go with them.”

  “No way am I leaving without you.”

  “Oh, I think you are.” He gave her rear a not-so-gentle shove. “Now move.”

  “Boss me around all you want,” she whispered threateningly, “but I don’t plan on leaving unless you’re with me.”

  “Trust me, angel, I don’t plan on it either.” His matter-of-fact statement radiated so much confidence that she smiled despite her anxiety. “Sharron has accrued a considerable space force here—formidable fighters. He’ll send them after us. The more lead time we have the better.”

  They rounded a corner and the passage constricted, brushing the tops of their heads. Muffin stopped abruptly. Jas collided with his wide rear end, and Rom plowed into her from behind. Suave covert operators they weren’t—on the outside, at any rate.

  Muffin took a tool out of his cloak and used it to pry open a panel. He lifted it high enough to peer into the torchlit corridor below. The sound of distant monotone chanting sent chills careening down her spine. “All clear,” he whispered in a deep rumble. He braced himself above the opening, paused, then dropped with surprising catlike grace to the floor. He flattened himself against the wall and withdrew his gun from his cloak.

  Jas hesitated. The hallway below was deserted, but at any time someone could walk by and see them. As if sensing her fears, Rom said quietly, “The worst is over. The front entrance is but a hundred paces from here. We’ll soon be free.”

  She blinked perspiration from her eyes and jumped.

  As her feet hit the floor, all hell broke loose. Doors slammed, men shouted. A high-pitched siren blasted out of vents in the ceiling…and this one was not in her mind.

  Rom snatched her hand. “Run!” She stumbled in tow, then regained her footing as they turned the first corner. The corridor turned on an L to the right. Muffin had disappeared. Fifty paces ahead a door framed a frosty wooded landscape below a leaden sky. But a hooded figure stepped in front of them, neatly blocking their escape.

  Swathed in a bloodred robe, this New Day cultist’s movements were clean, not sluggish as the others’ had been. The zealot waved a strangely shaped rifle in the air and the alarm ceased. “I had heard that my master’s gift was cavorting with a Vash gentleman,” said a familiar female voice. “Only I had no idea it was you, Rom B’kah.”

  “Oh, damn,” Jas blurted. “Beela. She brought me here.”

  “Don’t make eye contact, and don’t speak,” Rom said under his breath. Deftly reaching inside his tunic, he withdrew his laser pistol.

  Beela’s trigger finger flexed. Ice-blue energy coalesced on the muzzle of her gun. “Prudence dictates that you halt and drop your weapon.”

  “Move aside,” Rom replied, equally calm. He slowed his forward movement, tightening his grip on Jas’s hand as he took aim. In one smooth motion, Beela swept off her hood and swerved the muzzle of her long, pointy weapon to Jas’s head. Jas’s already pumping heart lurched, pounding impotently behind her ribs.

  Beela’s sculpted features eased into a winning smile that never reached her eyes. “Need I remind you that proton rifles are exceedingly messy?”

  A profound look of pain tightened Rom’s features, chased by a flicker of indecision. His knuckles went white as he gripped the butt of his pistol. Then his expression blanked like a skilled poker player’s.

  He kept his pistol aimed at Beela.

  Beela’s weapon remained pointed at Jas’s head.

  The air felt ready to shatter. Jas swallowed against a surge of nausea. She hoped Rom knew what he was doing.

  Beela’s attention settled on Jas. Her cold, sharp eyes glinted like chipped diamonds. “You should not have run away.”

  Rom squeezed her hand in warning. “She didn’t run. I took her.”

  “The master must not find his bed empty,” Beela went on. “Return to your room.” For the first time, the woman sought her compliance through the medallion. Jas sensed her trying to influence her thoughts as Sharron had.

  Jas lifted her chin and stared back. Beela’s photon rifle shook slightly, her gaze tracking down to Jas’s neck where the empty chain dangled. “Where is it?” she asked. Nostrils flaring, the woman snatched for the collar of Jas’s cloak. Rom’s forearm arced upward.

  A loud crack echoed somewhere behind them. At the same time, greenish blue sparks ricocheted off the walls as Beela’s photon rifle discharged. The air was forcibly sucked from Jas’s lungs. She staggered backward, half-blinded. Arms came out of nowhere to catch her just as her knees buckled. Muffin! The stench of something like an overheating car radiator burned her nostrils.

  Clutching her side, Beela wheeled on them. “The Family will bring the truth to your homes, to your children. We will bring war to you, B’kah, as you did to us. We will triumph, and the new day will dawn.” She lifted her rifle, but another burst of light silenced her, slamming her into the wall. Sagging to the floor, the woman regarded them with an expression of almost childlike surprise. Lacy smoke drifted up from her neck and shoulders, and Jas couldn’t help but feel a brief sadness for all those caught by Sharron’s power.

  A steady red light above the exit began to blink. Then the thick metal plate anchored to the ceiling shuddered. “Door’s closing!” she yelled.

  They bolted for the exit. “Go!” Rom shoved her through the swiftly narrowing opening. Muffin dove through with her. Scraped and bruised, she tumbled alongside him over frozen dirt. The door thudded shut.

  “Where’s Rom?” she shouted. “He didn’t make it!”

  A small, intense explosion blew apart the door, and Rom staggered out. He snatched her hand and off they went. The cold air stung her eyes, making them water. Snowflakes pricked her cheeks like needles. Over her uneven breaths, she heard the unmistakable rumble of engines roaring to life. A pair of ships soared overhead, then another. Sharron’s fighters.

  A snow-covered peak loomed, but Jas lost sight of it as they entered a grove of dizzyingly high coniferlike trees. Pinecones the size of Volkswagens littered the forest floor, slowing their progress. Sharp relief pierced her when she spotted a pair of sleek ships ahead.

  Zarra ran out from where he was standing between the starspeeders. He tensed, abruptly raising his pistol. “Behind you!” He began blasting away at their unseen pursuers.

  Beams of light exploded past. Rom and Muffin wheeled around and returned fire. Projectiles pinged off the closest starspeeder’s hull, and blinding threads of energy sliced off tree branches. Jas clutched for a holster she wished was there.

  A startled cry tore through the chaos. Turning, she saw Zarra fly backward. “Zarra!” she screamed.

  Rom caught her arm before she could run to the fallen young man. “Inside!” He thrust her into the speeder’s snug interior. The craft had accommodations for a small crew, but was by no means spacious.

  “Muffin’s got Zarra?”

  “Yes!”

  She breathed a prayer. The kid had nine lives.

  The hatch snapped shut behind them. She barely made it into one of two pil
ot seats in the cockpit before Rom fired the thrusters and yanked back on the yoke. The craft’s nose lurched skyward, slamming her into her seat. They broke free of the atmosphere. There was no gravity generator on this small ship, and her hair floated around her face.

  “Bandits, six o’clock high!” she shouted as the display in front of her lit up in warning. With the onboard computer providing split-second timing and protection from immense forces of acceleration, Rom jammed the controls left. The stars outside spun in a stellar kaleidoscope, and the long-forgotten rush of flying combat trilled through her. This was space, not the sky, but the sensations, the maneuvers, were the same.

  Rom fired. The first enemy ship burst into green and white fireworks. Chunks of debris thudded against the shield across the starspeeder’s hull. More fighters appeared on the viewscreen. Muffin immediately took out two, but the others veered in formation, heading their way.

  Rom swore under his breath as his fingers danced over the console. “The missile uploader’s jammed.”

  “What do you mean?” she blurted.

  “Unless I fix the blasted thing, we can’t fire back.” Rom unstrapped himself.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Belowdecks. To the missile bay.” He squeezed past her seat. “I think I can fix it manually.”

  Jas gaped at him as he floated to a hatch in the floor and opened it. “Who’s going to fly?”

  Rom winked at her.

  “You’recrazy!I haven’t flown combat in twenty years!”

  “Worry about that later.” His head dipped out of sight.

  “Damn you, B’kah.” Jas whirled back to the controls. Steadying herself, she lifted her gaze to the starfighters in pursuit and curled both hands over the yoke.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Off my tail, you bastard!” Jas dragged Sharron’s relentless pilot through maneuvers designed to bleed off his energy and slow him down. But it wasn’t working. Thrusters capable of light speed far outperformed the jet engines she was used to, and the starfighter stayed in her six o’clock. At most, her tactics kept him from firing, giving Rom the precious minutes he needed to repair the uploader.