by Jo Zebedee
“Kare! You’re dreaming, sir.”
The chill lifted and the drip of water receded. He managed to sit up, and pushed his sweat-laden hair back from his face. His hands were shaking, and he brought them to his chest, trying for some sort of control. Others in the squad were sitting up, watching him; obviously, he’d made quite a spectacle.
“Are you all right?” Simone’s voice carried an edge of concern. What had he shouted, from the depths of his cell?
He managed a nod, but it felt unreal, as if he was only half in the room. “Yeah.” A nightmare, nothing more. He mussed his hair, trying to bring some semblance of normality back, but it felt wrong, damn it, too brittle. Like him.
“Sir.” Her words were unusually hesitant. “We have an urgent message from your wife.”
A chill settled in him. Sonly would not contact him – anything military would come from Lichio – about anything other than the family. He followed Simone to the single bedroom full of weaponry, and leant against the small sink unit, his stomach twisting.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice somehow steady.
“There have been some problems on Ferran.” She indicated the bed. “Sit down.”
To hell with that; it didn’t matter if he was sitting or standing, just that he knew. “Tell me.”
“The children are missing in the fire forests, as is General le Payne. The Ferrans don’t believe any of them will survive the night.”
Kerra hadn’t been in his dream, or Lichio, only the boy. It hadn’t been a vision, just bad timing. And yet it felt like it presaged something. He gripped the sink harder, using its cold to anchor him in this room, this moment, and not let his mind run away with fear and possibilities. This was his fault. He had let the boy stay free after the attack on the ship, when he could have taken the political hit and had him locked up. It had been his call, and he’d made the wrong one.
What had Baelan done with his freedom? He thought of the cold cell, the drip-drip marking time, and fear clawed its way to its familiar place at his centre.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Ferran freighter banked over the forest far below, displaying its mile-upon-mile of green. She finally understood why the Ferrans had told her the search wouldn’t be a quick one. Even with a fix on the last known location, the dense forest would take time to search. She pressed her nose to the viewing panel and tried to decide how to play things on the ground. Losing her cool and demanding the searchers look harder wasn’t going to help anyone.
The Roamer pilot, keeping to the height the Ferrans had grudgingly given permission for when Sonly had made it clear she wasn’t leaving, banked the ship back towards the city. Below, smaller search ships tracked over the canopy, concentrated in the area where Kerra and Lichio had gone missing.
She clutched her comms unit. It flashed, but all the traffic was on her personal channel and held no interest for her. She was out of a job, either forced out or by her own intent. It didn’t matter – she was sick of her and hers being targets, sick of this life she led. Let someone else carry the flame. The military channel was the only thing she was interested in. She stared at the unit and willed it to do its job and let her know what was happening, but it stayed stubbornly quiet.
***
A transport droned over Lichio’s head. He hadn’t escaped. He was going to be taken to the quarry. Silom was quiet. He might be dead. That felt true in an odd, buried, way. A thin thread of pain and tiredness held him to the ground, as the beat-beat of the transport sounded far in the distance. He was happy to lie and let it pass over.
Water dripped nearby, a sound distinct from the distant engines. He turned his head, thirsty, sure it was a trick; there shouldn’t be any water on Belaudii. And the sun should be warm on his face. He opened his eyes, expecting bright light to stab him, and looked up at a sky of muted greys and greens. He blinked and it came back to him: he was in the fire forests with the sprites. It must be getting later if the trees were dripping condensation back to the ground.
He groaned and rolled over, making it first to his knees, and then to his feet. He had things to do – things that had become clear to him over the last night. There was nothing like facing your death to work out what really mattered, and it wasn’t protecting himself. Not anymore.
The tree-cover around him was thin; he must be near a clearing. He paused, tired enough to give up, but shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t survived last night for it to end here. He limped to where the trees were thinnest, and stepped into a clearing. Wincing, he pulled his shirt off, flapped it over his head and shouted in a rasping voice.
***
The ship banked, hard, and headed over the forest again.
“They’ve found something,” the pilot said. His voice was terse, his face unreadable in the typical Roamer fashion; she might be Kare’s wife, but she’d never be one of them. “See? Ahead – the search ships are being pulled back.” He swooped towards a decent-sized clearing. A military transport and two specialist forest-search transports had already landed. A medical-copter also landed, its team disembarking to duck into the forest.
“Pilot, return to your prescribed flight path,” the control panel blared.
The pilot glanced at her. “What do you want to do?”
“Can you land?”
The pilot shot a look of disdain. “I can land in half that space.”
“Then do it.” She stared out of the viewing window. Two military fighters approached from the city. “If they shoot me out of the air, they’ll have a publicity nightmare on their hands.” She glanced at him. “I will not tell Karlyn his daughter lay cold in strangers’ hands.”
He gave a sharp nod and took the ship down. She sat forwards, watching the fighters approach, but they only took up a flanking position. The Ferran authorities knew who she was, it seemed. The pilot settled the freighter in the clearing.
Sonly unstrapped and was on her feet before the engines had shut down. She opened the hatch and jumped to the ground, rather than waiting for the gangway to lower. She shivered despite the late-afternoon sun – the air was cold already. How much colder must it be at night? Her thin boots were more suited to the boardroom than a forest, and she was glad of the warmth in the soil.
A flurry of activity at the edge of the clearing took her attention. The medics emerged from the forest and between them, a foil blanket around his shoulders, stood Lichio, his face gaunt, his eyes shadowed. His skin was streaked with blood and dirt.
“Lich!” She darted across the clearing, ignoring the soldiers’ shouts for her to stop. One grabbed her arm, but she threw him off. She reached Lichio and embraced him, careful not to hurt him. He clung to her like she was holding him up.
“You’re alive,” she said. “How?”
“Later,” he slurred. He pushed her away. “Kerra’s not in the forest; she’s been taken.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Kerra was alive. Both of them were alive. It was the miracle she’d been praying for all night.
Lichio’s words sank in. “Taken? Who by?”
“Phelps,” said Lichio, but she’d already known it had to be him, the carrion crow who hunted people and found his way to them however he had to. Lichio swayed and one of the medics took his arm and started to lead him towards their transport. He shook the man off. “She’s being taken to Abendau.”
“General, come over to the transport,” said the medic. “We need to attend to you.”
Lichio let himself be pulled away, or was too tired to stop them, but looked over his shoulder again. “Don’t tell Kare! He mustn’t change the mission.”
She watched him go, trying to make sense of his words? Not tell Kare? He was on Belaudii – he could do something, where she couldn’t.
“The Empress has to be stopped!” said Lichio, wrenching his arm away from the frustrated medic. “It’s the only way to end things."
He might be right. She paused one moment more, deciding, and then ran for the Roamer ship, her com
ms unit already in her hand and activated. He might also be wrong – and she would never be able to face herself in the mirror if Kare could have done something and she never gave him the chance. He was Kerra’s father, and Baelan’s, too – it was up to him to decide what mattered most.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kare stared at the command-comms unit, as if hoping it would take the decision for him. When he finally lifted his head, Hickson and Simone were looking at him with something like sympathy. Behind them, Kym Woods, having delivered the order for the assault squad to stand down from their preparations for the raid, kept her face in closed blankness.
Sonly’s message had been stark, delivered in a cold, computerised voice that must have been nothing like the way she had recorded it. The kids were on their way to Belaudii and his mother. They’d arrive close to the time of his planned raid.
“Any thoughts?” he asked, his voice steady now that he knew the worst.
Hickson cleared his throat. “Any data on the type of ship they were on?”
“Nothing yet.” Hickson was right: focusing on the practical, not the what-ifs, was the thing to do. Kare tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. Phelps, the bastard, would’ve planned the snatch well. “Phelps must know if he’s discovered close to the main Roamer fleet, they would take steps to recover the children.” Well, Kerra anyway – the Roamers were no more enamoured by Baelan than anyone else.
“A cruiser, then?” said Simone. “He’ll want something quick, with firepower.”
“And a mid-range fighter squad,” said Woods. Hers wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. “He’ll run if he can and let the fighters do the work.”
That made sense. Kare nodded his thanks and started to tap the command console. “Let’s work within those parameters.” He glanced at Simone. “You have access to the port records?”
“Limited.”
He winced. In the compound he would have been able to run sim after sim, of all possible fleet parameters. He’d have the planet on full alert, picking up any incoming space traffic from the edge of the system, and would have hours to decide his strategy. This… this toy of a console, slowly building the first sim rather than running it in real time, wasn’t what he needed. He wanted to thump the console and see if it would speed up, but he didn’t dare damage it. The safe house had been set up to run an assault force, not interstellar attack parameters, and it was all he had. It had taken all his skill to work the programming up to this level.
“Limited records are better than nothing,” he said, but didn’t sound convinced. “Check for any fleets leaving—” He did a quick calculation; Phelps wouldn’t have stayed on Ferran long before the snatch. “In the last three days. Stretch it to four, if we don’t find anything. Then see if they’ve listed a return.” He got up and stretched; he needed a break. “Call me when” —if— “the sim’s finished and I’ll review the data.” He left, heading for the kitchen-area and a strong coffee.
“Sir?”
He stopped at the voice. “Sergeant.”
Kym faced him. “You said you’d take the bitch down.” Her eyes blazed, the message clear: he’d promised. “That’s what we should be doing, and the rest day is the logical time for it. Your concerns about the children shouldn’t govern your thinking.”
Her words nagged at his own doubts. He forced himself to meet her eyes. If he was going to take the action to delay the attack – and it was a big if, dependent on what he discovered – he’d stand over it, even to her.
“I appreciate how this appears,” he said. “But I don’t believe a delay will jeopardise the attack.”
“But any attempt to take the children will,” she pointed out, her words clipped. “If you do that, you’ll be allowing the Empress to dictate your actions. The way to free your children is to take the bitch out.”
Militarily she was right, but not every decision was about what was right. If the cost of his children’s lives was to retreat, he’d pay it.
“I know what I’m risking,” he said. She stared at him, not moving. “Sergeant, stand down.” He softened his voice. “I will take your concerns into account. I don’t intend to jeopardise anything, if I don’t have to.”
She paused, before giving a sharp nod.
“Sir,” she said, but it was clipped and formal, a person paying lip service and nothing more. She turned on her heel and he watched her go. He’d taken her future. Now he might break the promise he’d made in Silom’s name; he deserved nothing more than her contempt.
***
Kerra sat on the edge of the bunk, hands knuckled against her temples, and tried to get the mesh to form into something useful. It was full of unconnected thoughts, with none of the hive-consciousness she was used to. She’d tried up to the lights dimming in her cabin yesterday evening, through the night, and all today, but nothing had worked, and she needed it to.
She took a few deep breaths. Psyching was never effective if she was upset. She tried to remember how she’d flown the Roamer ship, the sense of space all around her, the peace it had brought. That was the closest she’d ever felt to the mesh. Groping, clutching a strand of power, she reached out and was rewarded by just a touch of Control.
Their ship was one of a small fleet, coming up to the Belaudii space-zone. Which meant she was almost out of time. If she wanted to turn the ship back to Ferran it would take more power than the mesh currently held, and, she feared, a lot more skill than she had.
She bet the pilot with the crooked grin could do it. She groped for her name. Laurena, that was it. A soft pulse responded to her thoughts, making Kerra jump. She concentrated on the shattered mesh, searching for the pulse, but it had gone.
She squeezed her eyes closed and felt the pulse again. This time, she almost pinpointed where it was. She thought of the pilot and how it had felt to fly beside her, and again the pulse came. This time she could see which segment of strands it came from, and she dove past the fragments, teeth gritted.
Laurena? The pulse of the Roamer came again, stronger, and she homed in on it, herself and the mesh a circling of knowledge and power, growing all the time. It was so right, so perfect. She’d be as strong as Baelan with this, as strong as their father. She opened herself to it, calling the Roamer minds to hers, putting them where they’d always been. It was a cycle, one that generation after generation of kings and queens had maintained, a perfect blend of mind and power, and it was what she’d been born to. It was what her father had never been able to do – give himself to the mesh – but it was what the Roamers needed from him. And, if he could not do it… then the mesh would claim what it needed: a true heir to Ealyn. He could not make a difference to what had happened on Ferran-V. He couldn’t stop Phelps taking her. But she could.
She turned her focus on the hive-mind, delivering a single instruction for the Roamers. It responded, heaving, in immediate obedience: this close, so near the centre, it was more vivid than she’d imagined. She delivered a second pulse, warning them about Lichio, and receiving a reassuring one back. It was working again. She held on to the mesh, and felt it embrace her back: it had chosen its new Queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“You asked for me?” Josef put his travel bag down. He must have been ready to leave when Lichio’s request reached him.
“Yes.” Lichio pushed himself up on his elbow, ignoring the draining tiredness. Josef took his other elbow, helping him to sit, and Lichio had to let him – it was either that or have the conversation while looking at the roof.
“They tell me you’re lucky to be alive.” Josef sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes raking Lichio. There was little of the calm assurance from their previous meeting. “What happened?”
“It was a rough night.” Lichio cleared his throat; despite the fluids he’d been given, the forest air had left it dry and sore. “Josef – when we talked, in my office?”
Josef stiffened, but didn’t move away. “Yes?”
“I was wrong.” Saying the w
ords felt good, as if he was coming back to the person he should have been. He forced himself to meet Josef’s eyes – even if it was too late, he’d say what had to be said. If it was over between them – if he’d broken things – at least let it end on an honest note. “You were right.”
On more than one level. He thought of Shadeen, so flattered by his interest in her, not knowing what he’d used her for. Not the sex, which had been mutual, but the implicit promises that he’d given – that she meant more to him than she had. That he was something he had not been: free and available. He felt shoddy. “I should have been open about you.”
Josef gave a curt nod, but said nothing. Lichio was on his own here, as he should be. He swallowed, wincing at the sharp pain, and forced himself to go on. To make this about actions taken and not the deeper feelings – the feelings that had been tearing through him, hurting him as he’d sworn he would never be again – would be as much a lie as his avoidance had ever been.
“I want to be with you. No more hiding.” No more pretending things were different than they were. It felt freeing. He took a deep breath – better to know, than to wish he had asked. “I will not hide again, if you will give me the chance.”
Did Josef remember the long nights in his embassy, sitting, feet entwined, talking out their hopes and dreams? Did he know that Lichio had never done that with anyone? That he wined and dined and entertained, but had never trusted?
“You asked for a commitment. I barely know what that feels like.” He’d never wanted to. “I’d like to.” He wanted to run, to dodge, to avoid as he always had, but he fought the reflex. “I love you. I should have thought of you. I have not been the person you deserved.”
He waited, prepared for the rebuffal, his breath tight. God, it hurt, to be so raw, to open himself to this. And yet, amongst the hurt, there was something else, something freeing.
Josef bent towards him, a slight smile on his face. He brushed Lichio’s lips with his own, light stubble rasping.
