by Susan Grant
“Listen up, Vantos,” Mardem said. “We had a secret briefing today—need to know only. You need to know.”
“No, I don’t.” Military secrets came with too many obligations.
“Yes, you do, buddy. Vantos, for years you’ve given us pilots inside information from your runs. You helped us, and we never gave you nothing in return.”
“Didn’t need to. It evened out in the bar.”
“No way in hells. And you know it. We relied on you more than our intel people on where the Drakken were hiding. You single-handedly cut the rate of ambush in half. So here’s something in return.” Again he cast his gaze around as if nervous someone was listening. “We had a briefing today. Top secret. But you’re one of us.” The ensign glanced at his friend and lowered his voice. “The boss says to keep an eye out for the warlord’s kid.”
“The son was killed.”
“He has another. A daughter.”
Keir choked. “Gods, are you serious?”
“Headquarters wants her. Bad.”
“I’ll bet.” Who wouldn’t want the ultimate war prize: a piece of the old man? The queen and her consort killed him in self-defense. That pretty much stole the ultimate satisfaction from the Coalition high command. “It was his daughter. Look at who the guy employed. I’d have kept her hidden, too. I’m surprised we haven’t found out where by now.”
“The palace records are a flargin’ mess, in code and disorganized. But they’re working on it.”
“By the time they crack the code, she’ll be long gone,” Keir said.
“She is. That’s why they’re going to offer a bounty to anyone who can bring her in. If anyone can, it’s you.”
“A bounty, you say.” Keir tried not to look too eager. Anything that combined an adrenaline rush with profit got his full attention. “How much?”
“Fifty million queen’s credits.”
“Fifty?” Keir wheezed. “Fifty million? Hoo, baby.”
“They’re announcing it soon—tomorrow or the next day—but I’m telling you now. Off the record, Vantos. You’d better not say anything to anyone.”
“Say something? Are you blasted kidding? Competition’s something I don’t need.”
“That’s why we want to give you a head start,” Mardem said. “For old times’ sake.”
He had a blasted run to make, a roundtrip to the depot and back. He needed the money and couldn’t get out of it. But he’d be back. “Give me something more, Mardem. How about a physical description?”
“No one’s got any pictures, but they showed us a composite based on the parents. Over ninety percent probability it’s what she looks like. Gorgeous, tall, blond. Hazel eyes, or green. A real bombshell.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely keep an eye out for her. She’s going to make me a rich man. I’m half in love already.”
Mardem snorted. Then he took a call on his PCD. “They want us back in the hangar. See you around, you crazy runner.” Mardem bid him farewell with a salute and walked away with Zarren.
Keir called after them. “You rocket jockeys take care of those vegetables!”
Zarren flipped him off. Chuckling, Keir walked back toward his ship. Fifty-million queens! With that kind of money in his pocket, he’d be able to quit this damn gig and head out to points unknown, maybe start his own transport company—high-risk stuff, that sort of thing.
If the warlord’s daughter was still alive. If the Triad didn’t get to her first, the believers would. They had scores to settle.
And Keir had a living to make.
If they’d resorted to a reward for the warlord’s daughter’s capture it meant the high command had exhausted all leads. Why? He racked his brain, trying to look at the puzzle from all angles. Maybe the warlord’s daughter wasn’t statuesque or even blond. Maybe she’d lived a low-key life under an assumed identity. Maybe, just maybe, she was nothing like what anyone thought and that was why no one had found her yet.
The thrill of discovery shot through him. You’re on to something, Vantos. Screw toilet patrol. The minute he got back to Zorabeta, he was going hunting. It may not be as exciting as running the blockade, but fifty-flargin-million queens were his if he was right about this, and he was getting the feeling he was. The entire galaxy was headed down the wrong path. But not him. No, not Keir Vantos, runner extraordinaire. If anyone could see alternative ways in—and out—it was he. Let everyone else look for a bombshell. He’d search for the girl no one suspected.
CHAPTER SIX
THE JOURNEY TO ZORABETA was interminable. Wren found that this new loneliness was almost harder to bear than her grief for Sabra. Feeling like an outsider was nothing new: on Barokk, she hadn’t been old enough to be accepted by the guardians and was too old to be peers with their charges. When Sabra was alive the sensation of not fitting in hadn’t been so acute. Onboard the ship, crammed into the underdecks with hundreds of other refugees, she’d never felt so alone.
The voyage was made longer with delays and reroutes due to blockades and unrest in the Borderlands. Traveling by spaceship was no better than it was the first time on the trip to meet her father. Space-sickness soon consumed her. Finally, someone noticed and called for help.
A medic and a guard rousted her from her narrow bunk. She’d lost track of how long she’d lain there, curled on her side. Startled, she felt for the hidden pendant. It was still there.
“I’m going to administer a dose of nanomeds,” the medic said, making her sit up. Others gathered around to watch. Some she knew from Barokk, others were strangers. The ship was beginning to fill up. At some point she guessed they’d reach capacity and head for Zorabeta. “They’re microscopic computers targeted for health issues. You were going to get them in the camp anyway.” He rooted through a bag of supplies and pulled out a small stick that reminded Wren uncomfortably of the poison dart. “Everyone in the Coalition is inoculated at birth. Your medicine was so backward that none of you were. Well, some of you Drakken have nanos—high-ranking Imperial officers, battlelords and the like. That’s how we find the ones trying to escape. The hardware in their blood gives them away.”
Her father and his men had had nanomeds, but he never saw to her care. If he had, the Triad would have detected the nanomeds. For once she was glad to have been neglected.
She fought dizziness and upset stomach as he pushed a stick against the inside of her elbow. It hissed and left behind a spot of blood. “You should feel some improvement now,” he said.
The magical creatures were inside her now. Nanomeds. She stared at her arm, opening and closing her hand to see if she could detect any differences. She couldn’t, but she felt better almost right away. “Thank you,” she breathed in awe.
The medic turned away to remove his gloves and reapply a cream to his hands. He wiped it off carefully with a cloth, cleaning every part of him that had come in contact with her. He did so in a way that reinforced the perception that the Coalition considered Drakken animals. It was reinforced by an air of superiority—a thousand years’ worth of righteousness. The Coalition served under goddesses, divine beings, whereas the Drakken followed the orders of mere mortals.
The medic packed up and left. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t friendly, either. Probably the last thing the medic wanted was to treat a Hordish barbarian kindly, but did so because it was his orders. Someone above him, someone even above the captain of this ship, wanted peace to take root, despite the hatred between the two peoples. It was cause for celebration. And also concern, for it meant they wouldn’t give up trying to find her—the warlord’s last surviving child. When it came to peace, her mere existence put it in jeopardy.
AT THE NEXT STOP, new arrivals had everyone atwitter. Wren stood with the others as refugee after refugee came aboard. These newcomers were pale and silent. They didn’t interact with anyone, not even the guards. Their eyes were blank. Dead. It was as if they’d retreated inside themselves.
“They survived a massacre,” some whispered.
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“Everyone was skulled.”
“What does that mean?” Wren asked.
“Naive girl,” a woman scolded.
“Consider yourself freepin’ blessed for not knowing,” another said. “I saw people who were skulled once. At the base of each one’s skull was a little circle of soot—a hole if you looked closer, about the size of your fingernail. Nice and neat. But if you saw the other side, the face, there was nothing left.”
Wren fought a fresh wave of queasiness, the kind that came from squeamishness and horror, and that meds couldn’t fix. What she felt when her fingers found the dart embedded in Sabra’s stomach. What she felt when she watched the life leave Ilkka’s eyes. The consequences of hate.
Most of the Barokk citizens listened on along with Wren in appalled silence. Like her, they’d been insulated from the horrors of war. Wren said, “But they’re Drakken.”
“You are naive. They’re Drakken, but they’re believers.”
Wren blushed hard and clamped her chatty lips closed. She was hungry for answers about her new world, the world she knew nothing about, but not to the point she wanted to risk revealing her identity.
An eavesdropping guard said, “‘Skulling’ is Hordish slang for blowing people’s brains out.” His cheek began to twitch. Surrounded by his former enemy, he gripped his rifle uncomfortably tight. “It was a favorite game of your battlelords. They did it to demoralize us, but all it did was infuriate us. Unlike us, your own believers wouldn’t retaliate, and the warlord knew it. They were defenseless. Still, he set out to kill every last one of them. What you see here was probably the last of it, thank gods. The last victims of the holocaust.” The big guard made the sign of the goddess. “May the likes of that monster never arise again.” He kissed the tips of his fingers and sent his prayer to the heavens as Sabra had done.
Murmurs went around. It took a moment before Wren realized that the others were mumbling prayers and thanks that her father was dead. A few began to weep.
She’d held out a small, selfish hope that the Coalition’s and the Drakken believers’ loathing of the empire drove them to lie, to exaggerate, but seeing the skulling survivors told a different story. Little wonder she was the most wanted woman in the galaxy. She felt sick in the pit of her soul. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She pushed on her glasses. Then she tore them off, not wanting to see the blank expressions of the survivors—survivors of her father’s atrocities.
Not wanting anyone to realize who she was.
No one else she’d met so far wore glasses. Only her. How long before someone on the warlord’s ship that day remembered she’d worn corrective lenses? She must not be found—by anyone. Found and used. Found and fought over. And risk waking the beast inside her.
She no longer had dear Sabra’s eyes to see. She needed her own.
EEEP…EEEP…EEEP.
Aral was lying on his stomach in bed. Eeep…eeep…eeep. What was that blasted sound? He opened an eye and scanned the environmental panel by his bedside. Indications were normal. Eeep…eeep…eeep. He rolled onto his back, actually desiring to return to slumber for once. After a nightmare earlier in his sleep cycle, he’d actually fallen back asleep. It had taken well over a hundred push-ups to exhaust himself to do it. A shot of whiskey and a longing glance at a vial of sleep meds and he was back to sleep. A memory of his father’s sweef-glazed eyes and the stink of it on his breath was enough to convince Aral not to drink more. Nor would he take the risk of medicating himself with the arrival at Zorabeta imminent. He needed all his wits about him to see to Awrenkka’s safe rescue today. Today!
Eeep…eeep…eeep.
“What is that freepin’ sound?” It was coming from his closet.
The PCD, he realized. After his last conversation with Zaafran, he’d stowed the thing. The man had been trying to reach him continuously. For what—to see if he’d captured the warlord’s daughter yet?
Eeep…eeep…eeep.
He stalked to the closet and growled, “Open.” His closet presented a fresh uniform on a spindly robotic arm. “No.”
The uniform disappeared back into the darkness and a soft, black civilian suit glided forward. It dangled from its hanger. “Next,” he commanded to the sound of the muffled beeping. In which pocket did he leave the PCD, and what the hells did Zaafran want now? If it concerned whether he’d sighted the warlord’s daughter, very soon he’d be able to answer in the affirmative.
It was nothing he cared to share with the prime-admiral, however.
Several clothing combinations rotated by. At the thought of Awrenkka, his grogginess began to clear, and his foul humor at being woken from the rare if brief stretch of sleep. If his innards felt sliced by razors at times, she was the salve—the mere thought of her—as she had been that day when he was little more than a boy.
His spare uniform swept stopped in front of him. Eeep…eeep…eeep. The beeping sound was loud and sharp.
He fished the PCD out of the pocket where it had been forgotten, grasping it in his fist. For a fraction of a second he considered answering the call. Karbon was gone. There was no reason to be connected by an umbilical cord with the Coalition anymore. With a flick of his thumbnail, he deactivated the power crystal. “The recipient of this call is unavailable—permanently,” he murmured, mimicking the computerized female voice that came on to authenticate all communication. His work with the Triad and for the Triad was done. It was his turn at life now. Yes, and Awrenkka’s.
AT ZORABETA, guards boarded the ship. They barked questions and entered information into what Wren learned was called a datapad. She fought to remain calm despite the trembles in her belly.
“Name?”
“Wren Senderin.” It had been Sabra’s last name. It was both a way to remain anonymous and honor the memory of her guardian.
“Birthplace?”
She supposed answering “the Imperial Palace” was not a good idea. “Barokk.”
“Occupation or special skills?”
Sand painting, reciting poetry, serving tea to battlelords, carrying on the Rakkuu bloodline? Purveyor of Rakkuu DNA? Or, perhaps, guide to a priceless treasure. “No.”
He punched in something on his pad, then handed her a data square. “This is the address of your tent when you arrive in the camp. Single, childless women only. No men allowed.”
She slipped the data square in her pocket. The guard gave her another. “Take this to the medical tent. They’ll fix your eyes.”
How she’d ached to be freed of her handicap. She closed her eyes and whispered silent thanks for her sudden good fortune—not to the goddesses but to anyone, divine or otherwise, who would listen.
“There’s no cause for worry. It comes with no obligation. The medical care is being donated by relief organizations. Top-notch surgeons volunteered to help you Drakken.”
Fates, he thought her worried. “Good sir, I am so happy I am speechless.”
His gaze warmed as if he thought she was sweet. Perhaps there was a time she might have agreed; now she knew better. “I don’t know if you’ll like what you see here once you can,” he said. “This dump isn’t the most scenic place we’ve got. But you’re Triad now. Things like eyeglasses gotta go.”
She took the data square and tucked it away in a pocket. Then she was standing at the top of the gangway, staring down at the spectacle that was Zorabeta refugee camp.
There was a sense of wildness in the camp, of too many people under not quite enough control. Strapping armed Coalition soldiers sauntered amongst the hundreds of bedraggled Drakken, inserting a layer of fear and respect that seemed a very thin barrier between calm and chaos. The odors of too many bodies in need of washing, strange perfumes and other scents that defied description tickled her nose.
A ship screeched overhead. The docks themselves were a noisy place. Trader-pilots relaxed in the shade of their ships, chatting with friends, waiting for freight or simply waiting, looking bored and hot. Others watched the streams of refugees go by. In
wonder, she stared at the ships taking off and landing all around her, and the men and women who piloted them to all corners of the galaxy—and maybe even beyond, she thought with a twinge of envy. She’d never been anywhere outside the books she devoured. And when she finally did have the chance, it was under the worst of circumstances.
“Come on, miss,” one of the guards below called up to her. “You can’t stand there all day.”
A cluster of guards watched her, their expressions amused. Someone gave her a push when she hesitated. She stumbled. Her glasses almost slid off. A panicky push with one finger put them back in place. It took every ounce of guts she had to step forward. The short walk down the ramp seemed miles long and took an eternity. Then she set foot on the ground.
Despite all her fears, despite all that was as yet unknown, she was free. Not a daughter. Not a wife. Free.
Then, with a deeply indrawn breath and a determined push on her glasses, she hurried forward to lose herself in the anonymity of the camp.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We ‘Earthlings’ are new to the vast galactic arena. What we lack in experience, we make up for in courage and hope. Today we celebrate a promising future, joining our new allies in their wish for enduring peace.”
—Laurel Ramos, President of the United States (address at Unity Day festivities at the United Nations, New York)
“Hell, yeah, I traded my slot in the Thunderbirds to serve on the Unity. Wouldn’t you, sir? Star ships, hot alien chicks…we’re talking a new frontier. I always wanted to be a space cowboy.”
—Major Ruben “Tango” Barrientes, USAF pilot (courtesy Air Force Times)
AN EXPLOSION ROCKED the ship. “Enemy targets in all quadrants, Captain.”
