The note itself came as a surprise to Wreg.
Yet he’d found it a clever move, as well as a damned touching one.
Wreg could feel that the boss hadn’t liked the public reading very much...or the fact that she had requested it. And yet, he hadn’t been entirely displeased with the Bridge’s reaction to what she’d heard.
It touched her, too. They all felt it.
After, she immediately asked the others if she should accept. She didn’t hesitate to put the question before the group...it was as if she’d already made up her mind. They watched her argue with the Adhipan leader, who of course was adamant from the beginning that she dismiss the proposal at once.
She continued to argue that she should be allowed to go...or at least be allowed to consider going.
Wreg knew Revik listened on the edge of his seat, so to speak.
He heard her leaning towards taking his offer, perhaps sooner than the rest of them picked up on her preference. Wreg had seen the hope in his friend’s eyes, the relief...hell, the anticipation. Even Wreg hadn’t realized quite how badly the Sword had been missing his mate until he heard that letter read aloud to the rest of those bastards.
He wanted the Bridge with him...more and apart from the necessity of the four being united. He’d offered to suspend his work while she stayed with him, and from what Wreg could tell, he’d meant every word of it.
But no one in the Sword’s army could have anticipated what would happen next.
The argument began to wind down. Balidor angered her, and she’d stopped playing the diplomat, finally...instead making her position clear. When he wouldn’t go along, she did as she should. She fired the bastard.
She’d asked to be uncollared, and Wreg felt the boss react to that, too.
Then everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
That bastard Adhipan leader shot her.
He fucking shot her...right in the heart.
Wreg thought the Sword would have a heart attack himself on the spot.
When the gun went off, the Elaerian let out a cry that Wreg felt down to his bones. The Sword’s light exploded out in terror, a disbelief that rapidly bled into shock...then a grief so intense it shuddered the construct...
He’d screamed again as he watched her fall...
She crumpled on the steps, eyes glazed, and the male Elaerian’s whole body collapsed inward as he watched her die...as he fought to breathe...
That had been worse.
Then he’d disappeared. He jumped into the Barrier so swiftly and completely, Wreg almost thought the Sword had died himself.
Wreg commanded a group to set up a perimeter around him, to guard his light as he went after his mate...but it was too late.
The Seven must have planned the maneuver...or at least had a contingency in place to respond to it. They set up a net within seconds. A construct within the construct threw up a cloak around every Seven bastard and even the two humans who’d witnessed the event...rendering them invisible.
Wreg’s team had been able to crack that too, of course, but it took time.
Time they hadn’t had.
During that delay, the Seven made their escape, taking the body of the Bridge with them.
Wreg watched the Sword look for her in vain for hours.
They made the decision to stay in Amritsar not long after the second day...once it grew obvious that her death wasn’t simply a trick of the Seven to confuse their trail, or to emotionally devastate the Sword. That much was clear within the first forty-eight hours, when he saw the Elaerian beginning to lose the ability to control his light. Even so, it wasn’t until the fourth day that Wreg admitted to himself that the Sword’s life was actually in danger.
After the fifth day, they’d had to restrain him.
By the end of the sixth, they’d had to drug him, too.
Even drugged, he was terrifying. They had to start pushing the humans in the hotel to not hear him when he started screaming. Within a few more days, they had to push those same humans to vacate the hotel altogether...and even began pushing humans to keep from passing too close on the street outside.
They built a construct to shield him, and warded the humans away; in effect, taking over the hotel and surrounding blocks.
His light was the real danger, of course. There had been accidents already. He’d broken the neck of one of Wreg’s infiltrators when she got too close to him. He’d broken the arm of another when a group of them had tried to use touch to calm him down.
Wreg even considered collaring him.
He nearly got his neck broken himself, for even thinking it.
They’d drugged him in higher doses instead, trying to cut at least the worst edges of the pain. It hadn’t really helped, but it seemed to dull his ability to use the telekinesis, which was as much as they could hope for by then.
Before things had gotten to the point where the Sword lost coherence entirely, he’d asked them to keep tracking the Seven bastard who had done it.
He’d asked Wreg to kill him for him.
As if Wreg needed to be asked.
BALIDOR WATCHED AS Dorje paced the confines of the small room, looking at the readouts on the screen set in the console. It was a distraction for Balidor, at least, watching his friend...albeit a poor one. It gave him the excuse to look away from her, to not stare at every line of pain on her face in minute detail.
Even so, the other infiltrator was starting to make Balidor nervous.
Dorje seemed to have hit his limit again, as well.
“You have to end it,” Dorje said. “Today. She is dying, Balidor!”
Balidor felt his shoulders tighten. He folded his arms, maybe just for something to do with them while he gazed through the thick pane of organic to the tank on the other side. Staring at her, he found himself gesturing in affirmative, rubbing his stubbled face with one hand. He felt sick himself, light-depleted, exhausted.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, she is.” Anger nearly overcame him, intense enough that his muscles tightened all through his body. Irrationally, all of it felt aimed at Dehgoies.
“Goddamn it...” he burst out.
“You knew it was a possibility!”
“I thought Terian had interrupted them before they finished,” Balidor said. “Alyson said as much to me...”
“Well, clearly,” Dorje said. “She was wrong.”
Balidor stared at the readouts, feeling his own sick feelings worsen.
“Clearly,” he said. “...I had thought between that and the fact that she hadn’t bonded with the other parts of him...”
Losing breath on his words, he blinked, realized he was fighting tears. That he would have put them both through this, and all for nothing...
He forced himself to think again, to use the other parts of his light. He looked at the infiltrator standing next to him, as another possibility slid into place in his mind.
“The boy.”
Dorje frowned. “You think the boy did it? Nenzi?”
Clicking sharply, at himself mostly, Balidor shook his head.
“...Damn it. I’d forgotten who he was, when he held her captive with Terian. He had her for weeks.” He stared through the organic window to her face. “Allie said he’d been desperate for affection...for contact of any kind. That he’d touch her any chance he got, even just to hold her hand. She didn’t have access to her light, so I assumed it was all on his end. But I wonder...”
“What?”
“Is it possible he managed to complete the bond then...?”
Dorje frowned. His light exuded nausea. “Are you saying he raped her? That this little murdering monster version of him raped her?”
“Maybe, yes. But not necessarily.” Balidor continued to think, rubbing his arm with one hand where his arms were crossed. “...The boy was the Elaerian part of Dehgoies. It is possible he would not have needed sex to finish weaving the connection with her. The bond isn’t sexual at its base...it is a weaving of light. Any intense energeti
c interaction between them...”
“It could have happened in Delhi,” Dorje said.
“Yes.” Balidor frowned, remembering Dehgoies’ face on the dance floor. “It could have. He seemed intent on having her. There could have been more motive than one in that. He could have gone out of his way to force a stronger connection to her while they were together. He might have known better how to do that, in his current form...”
Clicking softly again, he added,
“She felt different after. You noticed it...didn’t you, Dorje? She was different. Her light had changed...”
“Does it matter now?” Dorje said.
For a second, Balidor didn’t answer.
Then he made a negative gesture with one hand, seer-fashion.
“No,” he said. “It does not.”
Turning, he walked out of the observation room.
Walking faster, he slid around the corner to the narrow hallway beyond. In a few more steps, he stood before the doorway of the Barrier-shielded cell where the tank was housed. On the panel they’d installed to the right of the pressure-sealed organic door stood a set of readouts to the chamber beyond. A heart monitor showed a weak heartbeat that sent a pulsing, ghosting line across a small screen at each beat. Below that, a list of vitals scrolled that he had to squint to read...a truncated version of what the machines monitored inside the control room itself.
Under that lay a combination lock, with DNA encryption.
He turned to Dorje, his mouth set in a grim line.
“All right. I’m doing it. Tell the others...they need to be ready to move, and fast.” Laying a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, he added, “Make sure they understand, Dorje. This isn’t a drill. We need to be out of here in two hours, maximum.”
Dorje was already on his VR link.
Looking up after a pause, his eyes clicked back into focus on Balidor.
“Tenzin wants to know. Do we inform the others of our status? If we go to them without prior warning, they will not understand the degree of urgency...”
Balidor gestured negative. “No. Don’t tell them anything. Contact them, yes, so they are forewarned of our arrival...but for now, just tell them Dehgoies’ people are on their way...” Clenching his fists under his crossed arms, he added, “...That’s not exactly a lie. We will tell them as soon as we are able, but we can’t deal with their emotional reactions until we are fully in transit. It will likely just give him an easier trail to follow...”
“We’re taking them with us? The humans, too?”
“We have little choice.” Balidor gave him a grim look. “He will go after anyone who was there, brother. For now, they’ll have to come with us.”
Seeing Dorje’s worried look, he clasped his shoulder in reassurance.
“If we can leave them somewhere in safety...we will.”
Gesturing in affirmative, Dorje relayed all of this, as well. He clicked out a moment later, his eyes clearing as he vacated the Barrier.
“They are in motion,” he said. “They said thirty minutes.”
“We will need longer than that, before she can travel,” he said. “...But good.”
“Start, then,” Dorje prompted, gesturing towards the panel. His eyes remained worried as he peered through the transparent pane to the floating tank. “Start, brother. Please.”
Balidor nodded, taking a breath.
Turning, he began keying in the code that would open the door to the thick-walled, organic room. The walls, even the pressure door itself, stood at close to five feet of dense organics, exuding a Barrier signal that effectively cut her out of the lower realms entirely. It was an odd thing, really...the idea of simulating death in such a way, with her body so obviously alive. Yet clearly, it had worked. The only proof needed was to look at her wasted limbs.
Dorje remained, shifting his weight between his feet in nervousness, watching through the transparent section of wall to the right of the door. His face remained pinched as he focused on the tank. Once Balidor had the combination in motion, his eyes followed Dorje’s.
Even in those few seconds, her breathing seemed more shallow, her heart beats softer and fewer in the monitor on the panel.
“We’re losing her!” Dorje cried.
“No. She’ll be all right.”
Still, Balidor realized these were only words. He too stared through the window at the female in the tank, his body wound with adrenaline. Dorje might be right. He might have waited too long.
If he killed her now, after everything...
His jaw clenched, but he steeled himself, reminding himself why he had done it. They had to know. Now they did.
“You should go back,” he said to the other seer. “Engage the secondary construct. I’ll stay with her while she reconnects.”
Dorje hesitated. “You? Alone? Is that a good idea, Balidor?”
“Someone must stay with her. If we’ve left it too close, someone will need to perform the proper medical interventions...I do not want her to die either, Dorje. I am trained for this. And it is my responsibility.”
Dorje hesitated again, then gestured affirmative. “All right.”
“Tell the others I am sorry,” Balidor said. “...make sure they know that I failed in this. Those who want to leave, they should do so now. Quickly, before he can recover enough to find us.”
He met Dorje’s gaze, knowing his own eyes likely showed his strain on the surface. He fought not to look at the lock while he waited for it to release.
“My friend, you should go, too,” he told him. “Go to the mountains. Find friends who will disguise you. We are better separated for now.”
Dorje looked confused, and a little angry. “You want me to leave the Bridge?”
“I want to save your life, brother,” Balidor said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I want to save as many of us as I can...and we have little time.”
He glanced through the transparent window.
“All kinds of hell is about to rain down on our heads...”
15
ALIVE
WREG STOOD AT the gate of the door, watching him. It felt as though he had done so for months. It hadn’t been nearly that long in reality, he knew...but it felt longer than he could count in days and minutes for any longer.
He knew it wouldn’t be long now. The Elaerian wasn’t fighting anymore. He lay on his back in a pose of waiting, his clenched hands the only overt expression of his strain.
Wreg had even wondered at times, watching him, if they should hasten the end for him at this point...ease his suffering...
He had not. Not only because he was the Sword, but because Wreg knew this as part of the bonding process too. You lived for one, you died for them. It was right to let him experience this to the end, no matter how unpleasant.
Still, it was an act of will to remain by him at this point.
He could remember the Sword as a child, and as a young soldier in his ranks, when he’d had no idea who he really was...or the true role he’d played during the war. The Sword’s guardian, Menlim of Purestred, had wanted the young Syrimne to earn his own stripes, to not depend on his soul’s status to earn him the respect of his brothers and sisters.
He had succeeded...at least, in part.
Nenzi, as he had been called then, had been a frighteningly good soldier, even at that young age. It had irritated Wreg almost, that this veritable kid could do some of the things he could do, even against some of his more seasoned men. And it hadn’t all been hand-to-hand or a knack with a gun, either...both of which Wreg had seen in youngsters before. Nenzi also demonstrated a keen instinct for strategy, even if it verged on reckless at times. He understood the psychology behind war, something Wreg had never determined how to train into his charges as effectively as he would like. His seers either seemed to acquire such knowledge through experience and time...or they didn’t.
But truthfully, Wreg had also thought Nenzi a bit of an ass.
Immature, often angry, attention
-seeking, vindictive...even petty...he’d seemed overly concerned with his sexual conquests, way too ready for a fight, and he drank too much, even when he was supposed to be on duty. He’d been too young, for one thing...Wreg hadn’t even wanted such a kid in his ranks, and would have refused him if he’d been nephew to anyone else. Worse than that, he’d been too easy to emotionally trigger...too clearly damaged, and in ways he didn’t seem willing to own at the time, much less communicate in any coherent way. He’d shown not an ounce of understanding of the real work they were doing, or the importance of it to the Sark race, or to the world, for that matter.
Wreg spent half of his damned time disciplining him, it seemed...and cleaning up after him when he overreacted to some perceived slight, or tried to seduce the girlfriend or spouse of one of his brothers or sisters and nearly got his head kicked in.
At the time, Wreg dismissed him as one of those who fought for their cause simply as an excuse to spill blood.
He found out later that some of that had been cover. Nenzi’s uncle had instructed him to keep his feelings to himself about the war, and to play up some of the more immature aspects of his own personality. He’d even instructed him to pick fights, to sleep with the girlfriends of other soldiers, to steal from them, to show up at ops meetings drunk, to make mistakes on the field...providing they didn’t get him or too many others killed.
Menlim hadn’t wanted it to be too obvious that Nenzi had been extensively trained already, given his young age. Nor had he wanted his nephew getting close to anyone in the regular ranks. Menlim wanted him isolated, friendless, unapproachable. He wanted him disliked by his fellow infiltrators and soldiers. He didn’t want anyone missing him when he wasn’t around...or if they wondered, he wanted them to assume the worst.
He’d succeeded in that. Pretty much everyone in Wreg’s unit hated him. He hadn’t mustered up the courage to even tease the Sword about it just yet...much less to tell him that they’d had a drinking party in honor of his demise. The overall theme had been along the lines of, “good fucking riddance.”
Now that he knew that some of the worst of those behaviors stemmed mostly from Menlim’s charade, Wreg felt a bit ashamed of himself for his lack of perception. Knowing the man behind the act shamed him further, for it was clear he’d suffered in those years, and that the isolation had weighed on him.
Allie's War Season Two Page 21
