Hearts and Swords: Four Original Stories of Celta

by Robin D. Owens

  The screen filled with Kelse’s torso. He looked solid. Good.

  “Fellow travelers, I’ll tell you what I will do for you. I will protect you from violence caused by others. Who benefits from Captain Moungala’s death? And I will listen to you. Believe in the mission.” He smiled. “And try the new spices and sauces in the cafeteria. Blessed be.” He cut the broadcast.

  “Kelse, how could you agree to a challenge?” Chloe demanded.

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “I can take Dirk Lascom in a fight, Chloe. I spent thirty-seven years learning whether I can win a fight at a glance.

  Do me the courtesy of believing in that.” He rolled his shoulders; the shirt was too tight and strained. “And, primitive reaction or not, Dirk will lose much face and authority and believability when I win.”

  She scowled. “I need to set this up. I think you have the energy now, but don’t know how long it can last. Prepare.” She strode from the room speaking on her computer.

  Kelse searched the quarters and found a stained but acceptably fitting gi. He did a kata or two to balance his muscles, energy, and psi power.

  Then he sank to the floor and entered a light trance.

  Fifty minutes later he was walking down empty corridors with Chloe. Occasionally there was an open door and people standing there, but they said nothing.

  He was being judged, and not too favorably. Since he was eyeing the dull curving metal walls around him, walls that didn’t even have water stains or small mouse turds or the hint of scum growing on them, Kelse wasn’t surprised. Helluva thing, missing the decrepit signs of the ghetto and the warehouses the underground had lived in. But there had always been signs of life.

  Now most of the signs of life he noticed were in the recycled air. “This is a dreary place,” he said.

  Chloe flushed red.

  “We always knew it would be a dreary place, whether the metal shone or not. But we thought we could live in it for seventy-five years.” Kelse grimaced. “I’m sure we did as well as could be expected. We must improve the quality of life. I want to look at that great Greensward of yours.” He skimmed his memories. “A third of the ship, right?”

  “Correct.” Her voice was tight.

  “I think you had an excellent idea to have the whole crew visit it more. I haven’t seen a twig or leaf in fifteen hours and am feeling the lack.”

  “We’ll have to develop plans to facilitate the preservation of the Greensward. Twelve hundred people is a lot.”

  “Some will need more time in the green than others.” Kelse thought of Fern. She’d be like that. She’d loathe the ship as it was. She’d made accepting noises when they’d toured, but the metal and the lack of natural materials had displeased her. She’d spent time in the Greensward.

  He’d barely given it a glance.

  He and Chloe reached an omnivator and slanted down several stories. The air got denser and smellier. Too many humans on the ship for too long.

  Chloe said, “The lowest level of techs are the ones most inclined to favor the mutiny.”

  “They have the least to lose, the most to gain.” He’d been like that once.

  Then Chloe pushed through some double doors, and Kelse stepped into a small arena.

  The sporting area was round with white spongy mats covering the floor. The space was encircled by a three-meter-high wall. Above the wall were tiered seats, every one of them filled. In the center of the chamber, Dirk Lascom was limbering up. Pitiful.

  At the top of the wall sat an orange cat. Peaches.

  The bad man lies and cheats! Peaches said.

  Five

  Telepathy still bothered Kelse. I know! He shouted back to the cat mentally.

  Peaches winced, whiskers quivering.

  Then Dirk Lascom strolled toward Kelse, proud. The emotional resonance of the crowd supported him.

  Kelse moved to the center of the circle and projected his voice. “First blood?”

  “If you insist.” Lascom smirked. His voice seemed to carry without effort.

  “Good.” Kelse summoned his psi—his Flair—and let it prime his muscles, slide over his skin. Faster reflexes, extra strength. He studied his opponent, who wore a reckless grin. Then Kelse projected his voice. “Any rules?”

  “No!” Dirk kicked at Kelse’s groin.

  Hand blurring, Kelse caught Dirk’s foot, wrenched it, and flung him over, caught hold of the young man’s clothes, and tossed him toward a padded wall. His head thumped against it satisfactorily. Kelse heard no crack of a neck breaking. He’d gauged right then. The guy shouldn’t be out more than a minute or two. A tingle riffed his inherent defensive shields and he dropped and rolled. Green blazer fire singed the floor mat.

  Screams erupted. People shoved to get away.

  “Don’t panic.” Kelse snapped the order. No psi here, just years of experience. “Sit down in the nearest chair.”

  “He’s gone,” someone yelled, and that helped. People calmed. They found seats and sat. Kelse wondered how many had been hurt, saw Chloe speaking into her handheld. Then calm people garbed in white—Healers—entered the room through the doors at the top.

  “Thank you, friends,” Kelse said. “I promise that incident will be added to the crimes we are investigating. We are considering motive, now.”

  Dirk was twitching, raising himself on his elbow. Kelse strode over and yanked him to his feet, released him before he gave in to the urge to punch. “You want to say anything about an ambush?”

  The young man rubbed his head, then shook it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve got blood on your lip. That makes this bout mine,” Kelse said.

  There was a ripple of applause, a few shouts of approval. The crowd seemed to have settled down to watch the show.

  Dirk’s glance darted around, anger emanating from him. Kelse could guess what he was feeling. The guy wanted to hit Kelse, would really like to take him down, and wouldn’t care if he did that from the back. But of course he was aware of people around him, judging him. Judging Kelse.

  Kelse planted his feet, again projected his voice; the acoustics in the chamber were perfect. “First we fought. Next we’ll talk.” He held out his hand, and Lascom raised his.

  Kelse didn’t like the gleam in his eyes. Kelse slapped Dirk’s arm, curving his fingers just under the young man’s elbow. He didn’t look at what made a tiny clink as it fell to the ground. Dart probably. He stepped forward and crunched it under his foot.

  Smiling, he said to Dirk, “Now you clasp my arm in the same manner, and it will look like a greeting or an agreement, not like you meant to poison me.”

  “Not poison,” Dirk said under his breath. “Just a blood gauge to see how you were doing. You shouldn’t be this active so soon. What did you take?”

  Kelse didn’t believe Dirk’s easy excuse and didn’t reply. Let the man pursue his drug idea. Kelse evaluated his blood and energy himself. He didn’t have long before he’d collapse. He’d used a lot of psi today.

  Dirk clasped his arm. Kelse stepped back.

  Again Kelse spoke to the crowd but didn’t take his attention off Lascom. “As I said in my address, I welcome suggestions. GentleSir Dirk Lascom and I will set a time to confer.”

  Chloe and two husky guys showed up. The larger of the two gestured for Dirk to retire from the center of the arena. Kelse felt safe enough to focus on the crowd. “Lascom and I will speak together. But I have consulted with the astrophysicist Julianna Ambroz, the Captain of Arianrhod’s Wheel. She is doubtful that the newly discovered wormhole would lead us to civilized space and more provisions.” He paused. “And she has the calculations and analysis to back her up. Ask and I’ll forward them to you.”

  A young man, no more than eighteen, leapt from the wall down to the floor. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  Kelse turned to him, saw that Dirk was walking toward the guy, hand out, grinning. Probably wasn’t going to dart him.

  The newcomer w
as in his late teens, thin, and didn’t move like a fighter. He had a slight olive skin tone, blue eyes, and black hair like Dirk, but didn’t appear to be a relative. Kelse got no intent of threat from the guy.

  A few seconds later, Kelse recalled that the conspirators had a scientific genius. Should have remembered that sooner. Yes, he was slowing.

  Did the young man know Dirk had murdered the previous Captain? How could he overlook that?

  The bad man lies, Peaches said. The cat’s gaze was concentrated on Dirk.

  Kelse said, “I will be glad to provide you with Captain Ambroz’s information. Exec Hernandez, please forward—”

  “Randolph Ash,” Chloe said in suppressed tones.

  Randolph gazed at her with sad but determined eyes.

  “Please forward the data to GentleSir Ash.” Following instinct, Kelse spread his arms wide, turned slowly in place, meeting the eyes of one or two crew members in each section. “Thank you for coming. I welcome your input.” When he reached his original spot, he finished, “I remind those of you who wish to apply for the position of security officers to meet me in Gym Two tomorrow at MidAfternoonBell.” He glanced at Chloe and the two large men. “Let’s go.”

  They exited the arena to a buzz of voices that filled and echoed around the room.

  The walk back to his quarters passed in a blur. People were lined up to see him—only to see him. Occasionally a projectile was lobbed at him and he caught it. That was natural reflex, but he could feel his strength fading with every step.

  Chloe opened his door while he mumbled thanks to the men who’d accompanied him. They’d both be at the gym the next day. He hoped they had more than their size to recommend them. Basic fighting skills would be good.

  He stripped and fell onto his bed.

  A slight chiming woke Kelse and he lifted his eyelids to peer around groggily. The emergency hatch door was open, showing a dark hole.

  Fern stepped through and the portal closed behind her.

  Couldn’t be.

  “Kelse,” she said huskily, as if she hadn’t spoken in a long time.

  He sat up. She glided a pace into the room, then to him. Her fingers brushed his cheek. She was real. She smelled like chemicals and Fern, his woman.

  He was suddenly and completely awake. His chest ached with unsteady breaths.

  He saw her tremble. As he was trembling.

  He didn’t care.

  It didn’t seem like a day since he’d been with her. No, there were those ages of lonely dreams in the tube. It felt like the full two hundred and fifty years since he’d experienced her touch.

  He was unbearably aroused just looking at her naked, thinking of her and how they’d come together, loved, before. He hoped she was the same, because he knew the next moment their skin touched, he’d have no control. He would want only to claim his mate, ensure that she would know him, never forget him for any amount of time. Always be his. Forever.

  Even in the dim light, he saw the scar on her chest where the bullet had penetrated. He’d have lost her if an excellent Healer hadn’t been next to her when the mob had found them, turned on them.

  “Fern.” He didn’t think he actually said her name, might not even have mouthed it. But she heard.

  She choked and tears glistened on her face. Then she jumped on him.

  He grabbed her close, held her hard, and knew he’d been wrong before. Holding her, not sex, was important. Using his embrace to show her how lonely he’d been, how he’d missed her, how he could never let her go. The feel of her, her soft breasts against him, her skin, overwhelmed him. Now her fragrance enveloped him, sank into the pulse of his blood.

  He’d heard, knew, that smell was the most emotional sensory trigger. His Fern was in his arms, he smelled her skin, Fern-musk. His senses filled with her. His throat tightened. No, he couldn’t speak.

  They rocked together back and forth.

  Finally he heard something. Little whimpers from Fern.

  Low moans from himself.

  Hurt animals finding love, finding their mate.

  They fell back onto the bed. Then she was atop him, and the feel of her body rubbing against him removed all thought. Her tongue touched his lips, and he opened her mouth and he tasted her and she tasted him. Fern! Woman! His!

  Her lips were soft. He felt the caress of her fingers on his cheeks, sliding down his shoulders to his arms, the flutter of her right hand along the long scar he carried there. She took her mouth away and was over him, and wet salt fell on his face, on his lips.

  “Kelse, Kelse, Kelse.” It was a chant, and from outside his head because he never thought of his name. Then a long sigh and a squirm from her, and he was in her and nothing in his whole life had ever been as good as this moment. Huge hunger exploded in him and his hands clamped around her butt. He’d forgotten how good her ass felt in his palms, his woman, his. Right for him as no one ever had been or would be ever . . . ever . . . ever.

  And they were crying each other’s name, and they were riding together, and they were zooming high, high, high to the top of the universe, then shattering in bliss and sending bits of themselves sparking and sparkling throughout time and space.

  Long minutes passed as his mind coalesced into thought and settled back into his brain, and his brain was in his skull, and his body felt fabulous and was on a good bed and his woman was on him.

  His arms were around her, but lightly. He stroked her back. There was dampness between them—tears and sweat and sex. That felt good, too.

  Life affirming. He was alive and so was his Fern.

  And he would do anything to make sure they stayed that way.

  Would do anything to fulfill the dream they had, the dream they still shared.

  She moved, and emitted a small scream.

  “Wha?” His thick tongue formed the fragment.

  Her hand and arm curved in a gesture that he spent seconds admiring before he saw what had torn the sound from her.

  The great window wall of the room was transparent, showing space. Blackness beyond imagination with the sparkles he’d thought were himself and Fern. Brilliantly white, bright blue, pinpricks deep and glowing red.

  Space.

  What was outside the ship they were in.

  The doomed ship.

  It was beautiful.

  It was terrifying.

  It wasn’t what he’d promised her before they’d stepped into the tubes.

  He’d failed.

  Kelse let himself stare at his woman. She had a heart-shaped face and short black hair. Her misty violet eyes, the eyes that had snared him, were closed. He’d see them again soon. Her skin was soft, softer than anything in his life before he’d met her. Her roundish chin belied the sheer determination of her. In that they matched.

  Fern didn’t give up, either.

  She was with him.

  “I don’t understand it,” Kelse said. The bed was large enough for her to roll away from him but they’d been separated too long. He wanted her in his arms. “Chloe didn’t Awaken you.”

  “No. There wasn’t anyone there when I woke except a little bot.”

  “Automatic then.” He didn’t like that. So much could have gone wrong.

  “Nothing went wrong.” She slid her fingers through his hair, and he simply closed his eyes and felt her skin against his and breathed in her scent. It should have felt like only two days since he’d held her hand, but somewhere in his brain, maybe in his psi magic, he knew it had been centuries.

  “I saw your empty tube.” Her voice hitched. “And knew you’d been Awakened. I checked on the stats and found it had only been sixteen hours. I was glad.” She kissed him, her body sliding against his sinuously to arouse, her tongue parting his lips and sucking on his tongue. When she lifted her mouth, she said, “You’re supposed to tell me that you’re glad to have me with you.”

  He rolled her under him, slid inside her, loved the little whimper of pleasure she gave when he was snug. “I’m glad to hav
e you with me. To be with you. To be in you.” Then he began the slow, teasing thrusting that pleased them both. He closed his eyes as her legs wrapped around him.

  This was the very best of all worlds.

  He ached for her, still.

  He feared for her more.

  An hour later the main door opened and a woman walked in, working on a handheld. If she hadn’t been giving off such I’m-all-about-business vibes, Fern would have been suspicious of her motives.

  Fern and Kelse sat up.

  “It’s time you meet the nose bridge crew.” The older woman glanced up and her mouth dropped. So did her computer. “Kelse!” It was a near shriek.

  Then, “Fern.” She stared at Fern, swung her head back at Kelse. “Your fear for her is a weakness. You shouldn’t have Awakened her,” the old woman snapped.

  Fern draped a sheet around herself. It wasn’t as warm as Kelse’s muscular arm at her waist. And he was here, with her, solid, and the wispy dreams had vanished. His lower body was covered by a sheet, too, and that was good.

  She studied the woman, trying to place her. A small shock hit as she realized this small, thin woman was Chloe Hernandez.

  “You misremember,” Kelse said in those hard tones that allowed no doubt. “I was never taught how to Awaken anyone. I don’t have those skills.”

  He’d always been so focused on the end result of this mission, colonizing the planet, building a house and a city. Awakening before the ship had reached their planet must have been like a bombshell. She leaned against him, giving her support, as always. The tension in him lessened.

  “She’s not glowing,” Chloe said.

  “What?” Fern asked. Then she blinked as she noted a visible golden aura around Kelse.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “We believe she was Awakened automatically.”

  Chloe scowled. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

  Kelse shrugged. “We don’t know how it happened.”

  Head tilted, Chloe continued, “And she obviously doesn’t need the standard seventy-two-hour recovery period.” She shifted to gaze at Kelse. “I accepted that your Flair would help you out—”