Eclipsed (Heartstone Book 3)

by Frances Pauli

  She wanted to shake him off, to keep her eyes away. Mofitan didn’t release her, however, until she’d turned to face him. The eyes held her, pinned her and reminded her that he knew she’d tried to pry. Corah’s breath had gone with the tightening of her restraining harness. She blinked and felt her heartbeat revving dangerously.

  So what if she’d tried to read him? She’d had orders to do it. Her chin came up at that, and her shoulders fell back into place. The man’s lips twisted into a smile that had less than a friendly edge to it. He spoke low and softer than expected from a man of his size.

  “You should take more care.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” His hand returned to his lap, but he stared at her, and Corah felt the double meaning in his words as clearly as if he’d opened his thoughts to her.

  “You could get hurt. The restraints are there for a reason.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” She gave him an answer he could read whatever way he liked.

  “I’m sure you do.” A spark of humor lit his eyes, but he crushed it, narrowed them again and gave her a cool smile.

  “I’ll be just fine.”

  The cabin jumped as they touched down. Captain Curel’s headset erupted with static. The lilac Mofitan growled low in his throat. Low enough only Corah could hear it over the screeching of the docking clamps. She’d be fine, all right. Just as soon as she worked out what to do about Mofitan. Either use him to kill Gervis for her, or tell Gervis he was a spy, an assassin, anything to be rid of him.

  Because if she couldn’t read his mind, all Corah had to go on was his body language, and everything about that said danger. Whatever Mofitan’s real reason for being in Spectre, whatever his goal, he’d never knowingly help Corah. This giant didn’t care for her one bit. Without his thoughts, she couldn’t use him, and that meant he just had to go.

  Vashia squeezed through the tunnel at the bottom of her friend’s pothole and worked her way to the basement where he held court. One of her first acts as planetary governor had been to modify the property rights in the city limits. Anything a Chromian found and ferreted now legally belonged to him by right of salvage. It seemed like the least she could do for them, considering one of their number had saved her skin, made it possible for her to escape Eclipsis, and, eventually, find Dolfan.

  His den still had its cobwebs, but at least he wouldn’t ever have to worry about being discovered. In fact, she’d seen to it that the whole block belonged to the little alien. It was his on paper, and so long as she had control of Wraith, all Chromians would be welcome to her city’s trash.

  Truth be told, Vashia credited the flourishing population of little doughy tunnel dwellers with most of the actual clean-up. Anything remotely useful that was tossed out in Wraith managed to find its way into the underground lairs of the city’s least popular dwellers.

  “Hello?” She paused at the opening and waited for her friend to signal he was accepting visitors. “It’s me. Are you home?”

  Shuffling noises answered. The room beyond the round opening had light, but it was soft and warm, barely illuminating the shelves lining the walls, the cobwebs, and the piles of bundles and boxes of salvaged goods. She’d paid this particular Chromian a visit several times since returning to Wraith. Though Vashia suspected he didn’t understand a word she said, he’d become a sounding board for his planet’s governor. Whether he knew it or not.

  He shuffled into view now, peered at her squatting inside his tunnel, and tilted his round, hairless head to one side. Pale skin covered his smooth, pudgy body. His features barely registered against that backdrop, as if he’d been carved of wax and then time or activity had worn him down. The only sound he ever made was the thumping of his fat, fleshy tail. It dragged silently now. Only the sharp, black eyes belied his lively nature, shining even in the low light and, Vashia fancied, happy to see her.

  In any case, he waved her inside and the planetary governor hopped out of the slick tunnel and onto a dirty basement floor. The room’s walls were stuffed to overflowing with detritus from the back alleys. Her friend’s bundles protruded now, spilled over and piled on the floor around the edges. The other tunnels into and out of his lair remained a mystery to her. She’d never pried into his world, but every time she visited he managed to help her, to clarify her actions or choices, and for that, she felt more than a little grateful.

  She fancied they were allies.

  “Would you have time to read for me?”

  He already had his cards out, his little woven mat spread on the floor. Had he known she was coming? More likely, more rationally, he’d heard or seen the car from the upper floor and only managed to get down here, to get ready before she could. It still sent little chills across her skin when he nodded and waved for her to sit down.

  The Hadji cards and the Chromian remained interchangeable in her mind. She couldn’t think of one without the other, but then, she’d met him originally sitting in the mouth of an alley and waving the metal disks to get her attention. While he flipped and shuffled the circles, Vashia withdrew a pouch from inside her shirt. It contained a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry. Baubles really, but he wouldn’t take food or money. She’d tried that a few times, but never managed to discover what he needed, what Chromians ate, or even if they ate.

  Public records concerning the little man’s race consisted primarily of how to deal with an infestation. Even the records from off-world, the ones that had nothing to do with her father.

  They’d made her sick before she could read many.

  The soft face turned to her now. Thick fingers spread the silver disks in an arc across his mat. Vashia stared into the Chromian’s eyes and breathed loudly enough that echoes answered from the room’s corners.

  “I’m worried about my friend,” she said.

  The pale hands moved more quickly than their shape suggested. The fingers, though fat and stubby, handled the discs with the polished dexterity of one who rarely put the cards down. They plucked one circle and lifted it, facing out for Vashia’s benefit. He never even looked. His images were for the postulant to view and interpret on their own.

  This one didn’t take much thought. A tight fist in the silver circle. Strength. Mofitan.

  “Yes. That’s him.”

  The Chromian laid the disk down in front of her. They both sat cross-legged with the mat and silver arch between them. He used both hands this time, quick as a flash, and produced two more disks. These, he set face down on either side and above the card she’d labeled as Mofitan.

  He’d never done more than select a single card before, but somehow, she understood the meaning of this expanded layout. His fingers tapped one card and then the other, tapped the fist as one of two options. Two paths. Two possible outcomes.

  “I understand.” At least she hoped she did. A scientist would say she projected the entire reading, that the Chromian was a charlatan, an alley feeder, sucking off the city’s desperate souls. But Vashia had been one of those souls not long ago, and this man and his cards had pointed her way out. Today, her hopes were all focused on Mofitan. Let him be okay. Whether he succeeds or not, let our friend live.

  The Chromian flipped the first option, the path to Mofitan’s left, and Vashia sucked in a breath. She knew this card. He’d pulled it for her once, and now, the ruby red heart stood against its silver background like a breath of relief. The heart. If Mofitan had this card, Vashia could relax. If his heartmate lay at the end of his mission in Spectre, Vashia trusted it would end well. She believed in the Heart as fully as any Shrouded native.

  A fat finger tapped the heart card. Black eyes blinked pinpoints against his round face. They stared at one another and breathed. The Heart. Thank the Shroud. When he’d satisfied himself that she’d digested his message properly, the Chromian moved again. His hand hovered over the next card, the other option, and gave Vashia a stare that erased her good feelings and reminded her that the heart was only one path, one choice hanging over Mofitan’s clenched f
ist.

  He flipped it without breaking that stare. She didn’t have to look to know the card was rotten. It was all there in her doughy friend’s emotionless face. Reflected, her fears and worse. She shook her head, but the gaze didn’t flicker. In the end, she had to look.

  A black skull on a silver background. Vashia’s breath rushed out. She tried to focus on the heart, on the reassuring red symbol. Mofitan would choose the heart, wouldn’t he? The other card sneered at her, a clear image, death or danger. Mofitan had never flinched from either. At times, he seemed to welcome both.

  Two paths, two choices with Mofitan in the center. Which way would he go? Vashia stared at the silver disks, tried to will that fist toward the heart, tried to ignore death hovering just as near. She willed Mofitan to believe, to take the heart and live. Unfortunately, it was far too easy to imagine him rushing headlong into danger.

  Chapter Nine

  He should have let her hit her head. Their shuttle set down against the landing dock with a gentle kiss, and Mofitan’s hands continued to tingle where he’d grabbed at the woman like an idiot. Curel opened the transport’s hatch, and Gervis Dern’s “right arm” unbuckled herself and did her best to run as far away from Mofitan as possible. Just keep your distance. That’s fine with me.

  He took his time with his own restraints and following them out. The Banshee mine tore into the surface of Eclipsis, making a pale scar on the dark landscape. They’d seen the pits from above, the miles of branching pipeline making the holes look like huge spiders devouring the planet’s surface. From the landing pad, the smokestacks and silos blocked the view in all directions. The air stank of damps and refining chemicals, and a solid, slate-blue haze filled the spaces between structures.

  “Nice place you’ve got here.” Mofitan made a show of inhaling the smog. He scrunched his nose and, when he caught Corah eying him, winked and flashed a grin. “Really smelly.”

  “Don’t worry.” Captain Curel chuckled and stomped away from the transport. “You’ll smell just as bad soon enough.”

  He led them into the smog, through the gigantic shadows of pipes and silos, and nearly to the rim of Banshee’s main crater before stopping at the first of a series of low sheds. Towering over this, an animated display scrolled by figures, daily totals on the mine’s ore production by tunnel, damps reports, and a grid schedule of transports coming and going from the facility. The door of the shed opened a few steps before they reached it, and a squat form trundled out, rocking as it went like a stone rolling down a canyon slope.

  “That’s Director Boon,” Curel pointed out. “He’s in charge of Banshee, the miners, and now you.”

  Boon’s mouth stretched from one ear to the other, which was saying something in a head that wide. He stood lower, browner, and hairier than any humanoid Mofitan had encountered yet, and he reminded him instantly of the Shevran traders that plagued Moonbase 14. Which immediately labeled the man not to be trusted.

  “What the devil have you brought me now, Captain?”

  “Special delivery from Gervis Dern.” Curel chuckled. “A gorilla and his keeper.”

  Boon waddled closer and squinted up at Mofitan. He stopped a good five feet out of arm’s reach and grunted, then turned a fat leering expression on Corah. “Dern’s already sent word. Yer to look after him and I’m to look after…you.”

  Mofitan growled before he could swallow the urge. Never had been able to rein that reflex in. It drew the mining boss’s attention back to him and worked nicely to get the man’s eyes off of the woman. He let a second rumble loose for good measure and showed Boon his teeth.

  “Hmm.” The plodding humanoid shifted from one foot to the other. “Purple. Weird as hell. Still, all that bulk should be some good down in the hole.”

  “He’s definitely strong,” Curel joined in, but he flashed Mofitan a nasty grin, one that said he knew it would irritate him to speak about him as if he weren’t sentient, as if he weren’t standing right there. “But a little slow. Took six of my men to hold him down, but only one dart net to catch him.”

  They chuckled together while Mofitan rubbed his molars against each other. If they meant to taunt him into action, and he felt certain that was Curel’s goal, he wouldn’t satisfy them today. The knife the captain had planted on him felt heavier against his side, colder and far more of a danger to him than anyone else. He absolutely should have left it back in the locker.

  “Still good to have more hands,” Boon was saying. “Maybe Dern’s psychic can roust out the saboteur while she’s here.”

  “The what?” Corah’s voice snapped like a whip above the men’s humor. They silenced in its echo, and Mofitan saw the shadow cross Captain Curel’s face. He caught the look of warning the man tossed toward the mining director. Captain Curel was a lot quicker than the squat brown toad of a man who ran Banshee. They called him slow.

  “Three shut downs in as many weeks,” Boon blurted, his disgust at the lost hours drowning out the clearing of Curel’s throat. “Two lines cut and last week and explosion in tunnel fi…”

  At last he found the warning Curel lobbed at him. His words trailed off, but not before they impressed themselves upon Corah. Mofitan could see that, even if Boon couldn’t. He’d bet anything Curel could see it too.

  Dern’s right arm had her spine as straight as a pipe now. Her pointy chin jutted straight out too, and her eyes flashed. As rigid as she’d gone, her hands gave her away. They waved at her sides, fingers slowly flexing and unflexing. The idea of sabotage had her riled and at attention. No doubt her loyalty to Dern would drive her to the task of finding the culprit. Which would get her away from Mofitan and hopefully distract her long enough for him to work out some way to truly shine down “in the hole” as Boon put it.

  Maybe he could uncover the saboteur first. Maybe, he could save the day and get out of here faster than anyone expected.

  “It’s not important,” Curel plowed over Boon’s slip-up. “I assure you, the troops here have the situation in hand. Your job, psychic, is to keep this one in hand.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’ll be any trouble,” Boon interrupted again, earning another chastising look. “It’s just that we got plenty of firepower on them, down there. Nowhere to go but down, anyways.”

  Curel sighed and shrugged. “Well then, since you have things in hand, I’ll be going.”

  “What?” The director’s head swiveled to either side, scanned the mist, and found no backup there.

  “Dern has ordered me to return at once.” Curel already marched toward the landing pads, already washed his hands of their situation and fled into the smog.

  Boon said a word Mofitan didn’t know. Judging from the color it spawned on Corah’s face, however, he guessed it to be fairly foul. “You just…you wait here while I…”

  “Mr. Boon.” Corah stepped forward and the mining director flinched. “Director, I assure you there is no danger.”

  “But…” The head turned to him, eyes too small for the man’s mass regarded Mofitan with suspicion. “Curel said…”

  “Mr. Mofitan is here of his own will.” She spoke for him, which also rankled, but he’d take her over Curel any day. “And I assure you he is smart enough to know there’s nothing to be gained by causing trouble for you.”

  “I don’t know.” Mofitan couldn’t help himself and enjoyed the warning look she flashed in his direction. “I hear I’m pretty slow.”

  “Fast enough,” Corah said. “But you’ll do what Boon says. You mean to impress Dern somehow, and that won’t happen if you start any trouble.”

  “Oh, I wholeheartedly agree. No trouble on my end.”

  He couldn’t quite work out if she meant her point as a threat to keep him in line, or as a warning to let him know she knew what his plans were. Either way it gave him a little more credit than Curel had. He still had to grind another layer off his back teeth to keep from sassing her even more. Or maybe, tackling her and…

  “Good.” Boon’s interruption
saved him from indulging that little fantasy. “We don’t need any more, any trouble at all.”

  The mining director finally caught on, not that the cat wasn’t already out of the bag. Dern’s production here in Banshee was under attack. Someone inside the mine already worked against Gervis, and if Mofitan could work out who, he just might have one ally here already. The thought died in the whine of their transport’s engines. Curel leaving. Good. Mofitan wanted him gone. The only one who knew about the knife in his possession he wanted as far away from Banshee as possible. Until he could get rid of it safely, until he could decide for certain if he’d need it or not down in the bowels of the mine.

  “Come on then,” Boon grumbled and shuffled backwards, not quite ready to turn his back on them. “I’ll get you settled in.”

  Mofitan moved and the mining director scrambled away, waiting a good three paces to actually turn around and look where he was going. The woman marched forward, stiff and wrapped more tightly than King Peryl’s sleeves. Something, maybe someone, needed to unravel her, needed to loosen her up.

  “Mr. Mofitan!”

  He snapped to attention at the sound of her voice, chirpy, too high and too tight like the rest of her. Teeth. Grind it out. Mofitan snorted and showed her his grin before leaping after her.

  She kept walking, didn’t quite show her fear in her gait. She had too much dignity for that, considerably more than Boon, who’d already vanished into the nasty vapors. Corah followed him, and Mofitan followed her at a brisk enough pace to keep her guessing, to keep her looking back over one shoulder to check their distance.

  By the time they rediscovered the mining director, her hands waved at her sides again, reminiscent of her master. They showed nerves she held too tightly in check. What she couldn’t contain bled off through her fingers. Useful information.

  “Here we are.” Boon waved a stout arm toward two sheds, side by side and formed of thin metal that looked more like hull patch than structure-bearing material. “One room each.”