She scanned the hallway to either side, met a few faces peeking from other doors, other girls who shared her suspicious nature. They didn’t return her smile, but she suspected they shared her relief. Whatever their backgrounds, they’d all ended up in the same mess.
Their compartment held three bunks. Two stacked against one wall, and a third mounted on the opposite over the top of a small set of drawers. A slim person could just wriggle through the space between. Not exactly expansive quarters, but a room of their own at least. Murrel lounged on the lower bunk. She lay on her side and watched Vashia with huge, green eyes and a composed expression. The bunk over the desk would offer the best angle for conversation.
Vashia squeezed into the gap and hauled herself up. She lay on her stomach and rested her chin on her palms. She’d never had a roommate, had never shared her space with another soul. Something told her Murrel hadn’t either.
“So,” Vashia began, “what else do you know about Shroud?”
They had a long journey ahead. She intended to pick every fact, myth or rumor, from the other girl’s brain. Her future might depend on it, and she’d definitely rather face her future armed with something. Murrel beamed at her. She visibly puffed up, and Vashia let her enjoy the status shift. It wasn’t dominance that she wanted in the least.
“Well,” Murrel began, “they are very mysterious.”
Vashia nodded and matched her wide-eyed expression. She suspected Murrel would love an audience of any sort.
“And their whole culture is fixated on the sacred Heart.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Vashia saw a flashing disk—red, silver, red.
“It’s not a real heart.” Murrel didn’t notice her reaction. She had a story to tell, maybe many stories. “Just a huge crystal that they call the Heart.”
“What does it do?” She heard the distance in her own voice. She felt the electric jolt again, exactly like she had during takeoff.
“Nothing.” Murrel shrugged. “It’s just a religious thing.”
She started in again, talking fast and with words that held a note of both excitement and traces of doubt. Vashia tried to listen. She needed to hear every word, but the sound of Murrel’s voice blurred at the edges. The girl’s face dimmed against the memory of a shining, ruby heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TRANSPORTS INCOMING AT THREE PADS. Dolfan ran the schedule across the screen, cross referenced with outgoing cargo, and keyed in the landing sequences. He watched the orders shift, scroll, readjust, and compiled a revised order. Busywork, really. The computers could do it without him, but then he’d be left to drift the hallways, oversee the workers and traders and monitor bride orientation.
He snorted and flipped the exterior camera switch. He’d leave that to Mofitan when he arrived. The screen to his left shifted to an image of the Shroud. The gaseous surface swirled, deceptively peaceful from this height. The elevator platform had crossed orbits with them an hour ago. He could just make out the cable disappearing into the clouds. No sign of the car yet. He had a little head start, a little time.
Of the incoming vessels, only one held candidates. He shook off the surge of curiosity. The Kingmaker was not his business. Yet, there was little work for him to do at the moment. When Mofitan arrived, he’d be hard pressed to get within twenty yards of the brides. If he were inclined to take a peek, his window of opportunity wouldn’t wait.
He checked the reading on the elevator, calculated the car’s position and arrival time. Mof had pushed his bike to maximum speed, if he’d arrived at the platform that soon. Dolfan frowned and tapped the panel absently. Mof was damn fired up to see the Kingmaker before Haftan. He was damn fired up period. Too many risks.
He shook his head. Mofitan would be enough of a distraction once he arrived. Right now, he might as well take a stroll. The control room sat above the ops bunker, rattled gently by the constant vibration of the life support that kept the base environment habitable. A short walk through an access tunnel would take him directly to the smaller shuttle bays.
He tapped the screen again and made up his mind. He needed to check with the crews in industry anyway. Straight through the landing area was a much shorter route than a detour through the atrium. If he happened to see the brides disembarking, no one could fault him for it. He scanned the upcoming schedule. Just the three arrivals today if you didn’t count the shuttle that would ferry Mofitan from the elevator platform to the moon.
His footsteps clipped against the mesh flooring. The door slid aside with a faint whoosh. Mofitan’s shuttle would arrive within the hour. He frowned and turned right, heading for the breezeway and the short trek to the landing pads.
They ate together. The ship boasted a long mess area, and the fourteen candidates were summoned twice a day to the room for sustenance. They crowded around the long table and ate meals with little flavor and even less color. It didn’t matter. For most of the women the food was some of the best they’d ever tasted. Most of them were eating their first meals free of a life of degradation and poverty.
The candidates on board also found themselves without a sense of any real direction. Mr. Noll, their coordinator, tapped on the door at mealtime, but must have had other ship duties to occupy the rest of his day. The freedom, paired with the lack of information, spawned a heavy dose of speculation. The table buzzed with the low whispers as each girl tried to learn what she could from the others.
Three days into the trip, Murrel had already achieved celebrity status. She had a perpetual cluster of intent listeners, and her stories shifted almost as often as the individuals around her. This morning, she lectured two of the younger women on the sexual habits of the Shrouded.
“Are they really?” A girl called Jine blinked so fast Vashia couldn’t tell what color her eyes were.
“Oh yes.” Murrel’s voice adopted the tone Vashia had come to recognize as the one reserved for pure bullshit. “And sometimes they…” she trailed off into a whisper. The girls giggled loud enough to get the rest of the table’s attention.
Vashia stared at her mush and ignored the ruckus. By her figuring, she’d drained Murrel’s store of useful information their first night aboard. The woman’s tales got more elaborate and more fabricated with each telling. Her deceased father also changed careers on a regular basis. He’d magically morphed into a police officer, an ambassador, and, on one occasion, a senator.
If any of the others noticed the lapses, they didn’t speak up. Murrel’s information, however flawed, was the only hint any of them were getting about their destination. Vashia chewed and swallowed, scooped up another spoonful and squinted at it. Unlike her companions, she remembered enjoying good food.
“And they ride huge, winged beetles,” Murrel’s volume lifted. She’d exhausted her sex talk and moved on to more public topics. “That can see right through the clouds.”
“You’re shittin’ us.” Another woman called Tarren leaned forward on both elbows. She always sat at the head of the table, claiming the position either through age or some unspoken sense of dominance. Vashia thought of her as the alpha prostitute on board. Now her sculpted eyebrows raised in tandem. Her permanently red-stained lips pressed into a pucker that wanted to refute Murrel’s story. Jealousy stained her face. “How can you know that?”
“Because my father met the king once.” Murrel didn’t even skip a beat. Her ability to lie unflinchingly was damned impressive.
“He didn’t.” Jine blinked from Murrel’s right, incredulous. “When? What did he look like?”
“They’re big,” Murrel said. She gave Jine a suggestive glance before continuing. “Tall, and with long, dark hair.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tarren found her nerve. She sat back and challenged Murrel with her eyes. “No one’s seen the Shrouded. Not even a Senator.”
“That’s not true.” Vashia spoke up. She saw Murrel jolt and turn in her direction, but on this point, she felt qualified to lend some truth to the conversation. “They do allow
traders on the moon base.”
“How would you know?” Tarren turned the gaze on her. “I thought you waited tables.”
Before she could reconfirm her alias, Murrel dove back in and seized the table’s attention again. “I told her,” she said, “of course. My dad did meet the king once. They had to sort out the trading agreements for Eclipsis.”
“Which dad?” Tarren muttered, but everyone at the table heard her. Vashia had to stifle a snicker. She shared a room with Murrel and didn’t care to end up on the woman’s bad side again.
“My father,” Murrel said, “left the Senate to take over governing on Eclipsis.”
Vashia’s head snapped up. She couldn’t help it.
“You’re Governor Kovath’s daughter?” Tarren’s lip curled around Kovath’s name, but Murrel missed it. Vashia definitely didn’t.
“Of course.” Murrel sat up straighter. She set her shoulders and assumed a superior expression. Tarren dove for her before she said anything else.
The table rocked hard to the side as the prostitute vaulted across the surface toward Murrel. Girls screamed and leapt in all directions, but Tarren got hold of Murrel’s shirt. She lifted her right up out of her seat, snarling. “Dirty son of a bitch!”
“Whoa!” Vashia moved without thinking. She slid beside the pair and put an arm on each woman’s chest and heaved. “Easy! Let her go.”
“She’s his—his,” Tarren growled, but she released her grip on Murrel. “Spoiled, worthless, pampered purebred…”
“If it was so great,” Vashia felt her own teeth come out. “She wouldn’t be here, would she?”
Tarren didn’t move. She stared at Murrel with eyes that sent icy rivers through Vashia’s veins. That look, the woman’s hatred, was meant for her.
“R—right.” Murrel sputtered. Her eyes had doubled in size, and Vashia saw her hands trembling against the table.
“Listen.” She needed to diffuse the situation fast. The only thing she could think of was the truth. “Tarren, is it? Do you know who Jarn is?”
The woman’s eyes shifted. They burned a hole in her, and she knew exactly what the answer was before the woman nodded and pushed herself back across the table.
“Of course.” Tarren slid into her chair and stared at her knuckles growing white against the surface they gripped. “Who doesn’t?”
“Well, they were going to give her to him. Got it? That’s how spoiled and pampered she is. Her father gave her to Jarn for services rendered.”
“Holy shit.” Tarren darted a different sort of look in Murrel’s direction. Vashia deserved that one too, but she’d let Murrel keep it for now.
“Yeah. Holy shit,” she said. She sat down again and waited for either of them to say something. Nobody did, and the rest of the group had long since scurried back to their respective quarters. Tarren scared them all, perhaps, but looking at her now, Vashia had to feel for her. Pity, and what else? Guilt. Compared to some, it seemed, she had been pampered.
Finally, Tarren shrugged and relaxed back against her chair. Murrel nearly jumped out of her skin, but she recovered fast enough. Both of them laughed until Vashia had to join in. It was, after all, her story and not Murrel’s. Still, she let them sort it out, and when Tarren spoke, she pretended the words were meant for her.
“Man,” the woman said as she shook her head and favored Murrel with a sad look. “Whatever we’re heading for, I think you made the right choice.”
Vashia dropped her eyes to her lap and prayed with all she had that the alpha prostitute knew what she was talking about.
The brides disappointed him. Dolfan watched the women disembark and felt absolutely nothing. Mofitan would be pleased. He turned from the shuttle pad overlook and checked the arrival screen. Fifteen minutes to Mof’s arrival. Fifteen more minutes of peace.
He took the short walk to the industrial bays. The new brides would pass the long way through the atrium to the far dome for orientation. He couldn’t see the point in following. The big transports docked below the shuttle levels, and their cargo would soon roll across the causeway for unloading. At least there he could be of some use.
He took a lift down to the main floor and followed the first wave of hover sleds out of the hangar. They lumbered through the wide tunnel connecting the arrival point and the industrial dome. There the loads were separated, guided by Shrouded work crews toward the different sectors, one for each primary export of Shroud: fabrics, gems and raw ores. Dolfan turned right and trailed a sled carrying a treasure trove of opal, color changing chrysoberyl, and the banded agates that made his home world such a rare and coveted source of trade. The rumors claimed the core was so loaded with gem material that it cracked and split apart around the lodes—rumors, but not entirely without a seed of truth.
The crates of rough on the barge were destined for the cutters on Pagh, or Shevra or some other world with the square footage to house permanent industry. From there the stone would travel as high-end merchandise to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. The Shrouded riches would earn a handsome number of credits for the government purchasing them.
Judging from the man waiting for the sled, Dolfan guessed that to be Shevra. The long tunic of onyx silk indicated the man’s status as Merchant Class VI, and the rough green skin and triple row of gill slits advertised his Shevran descent. This one would find a way to spoil Dolfan’s already flawed morning. Dealing with Shevrans always managed to make a bad day worse.
“You there!” If the lizard-man knew as much about Shrouded culture, he’d take the ring on Dolfan’s finger for what it was and use a more appropriate address. Instead, he placed long-fingered hands on his hips and moved to block the prince’s progress. “A moment. Thank you.”
“What can I do for you?” Dolfan bit back the irritable retort and smiled for the transaction’s benefit.
“I have a complaint.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d be happy to listen.” He stretched the smile a little, not quite showing his teeth. His jaw tightened despite his efforts.
“The terms of our contract.” The Shevran snarled openly. “Require re-negotiation. I insist on the leeway to inspect the goods before they are transported.”
“You have it.” Dolfan stiffened. He knew exactly what the bastard wanted, but he wasn’t going to get it. “All contracts are pending only until the buyer inspects and signs off on the product. You know that, I suspect.”
“We wish to inspect the material at the source.”
“No.” He ignored the Shevran’s reaction, the chest puffing and the flush of yellow that crept across his gills. “That is absolutely out of the question, of course.”
“Allowing a delegation to inspect the goods on site would save your operation a great deal of the cost to transport goods that might eventually be rejected.”
“Reject away.” Dolfan leaned forward. He stood a good head taller than the lizard and he intended to use the fact to his advantage. The Shevrans understood posturing. But apparently they didn’t understand diplomacy or the terms of their trading agreement. “You are welcome to refuse any shipment or any portion of one. Go right ahead. We are more than happy to absorb the cost of transport, though I doubt we’d need to. The list of traders awaiting access to Base 14 is long and distinguished. I’m certain someone would be more than happy to take any of your shipments.”
They’d be happy to take the Shevran’s place as well, and the man knew it. His whole face went yellow and his neck bobbed slightly—a sign of aggression, but Dolfan let slide for the sake of business.
“You cannot keep the universe at bay forever,” the Shevran hissed.
“Oh, I don’t know. We seem to be doing a fine job of it so far.” Dolfan grinned and shrugged. The subject shift, however slight, was a win for him. He doubted the man had ever refused even a portion of goods delivered, or ever would.
Still, as the trader turned and focused on inspecting the crates of gem ro
ugh, Dolfan frowned. The whole act had been a ploy to get Shevrans on the core. He’d dealt with the same thing often enough. Too often, in fact. He watched the green fingers paw through the stone and shook his head. Everyone wanted to be on the surface. Everyone wanted a peek below the Shroud.
He might tell a merchant or two that they had it under control, but somehow, he wondered. Could they keep the universe at bay? Base 14—the whole trading outfit—seemed like a good idea. It had worked for the first few years, but the distraction had worked too well. Perhaps the quality of goods coming out of the core would cause even more trouble.
He glanced up to the high screen and watched the arrivals and departures scroll over their heads. Mofitan’s shuttle had left the platform. The elevator cars were the only road to the planet’s surface. For anyone nonnative, there was only one ticket that earned you a ride down. And that ticket, the one that brought brides to the Shrouded, was a one way trip.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“NOW THIS IS CHOICE.” Tarren sat cross-legged on the bunk opposite Vashia and eyed the blue wig. She turned it over and ran her hands down the silky strands. “Where did you find it?”
“I traded for it.” Vashia leaned against her pillow and smiled at the ceiling. Their stuff had been returned once the transport was cleared of Eclipsis, but the wig she could definitely live without. “You want it?”
Tarren dropped it too fast. She shook her head. “No, no. It’s just nice.”
“I was going to leave it behind when we got there.” Vashia shrugged. “If you don’t want it, I’ll probably throw it out.”
Below them, directly under Tarren, Murrel snorted and rolled over in her sleep. Since the mess hall altercation, Tarren spent more time in their room than her own. She slid the wig back into her lap and kept her eyes on it.
Shrouded: Heartstone Book One Page 6
