“What’s not bad? Being a prisoner? That sucks.” He knew she probably couldn’t follow his speech. He wasn’t sure he cared.
She turned abruptly and put the cube on the tabletop. “Paroo.” Her voice carried over her shoulder. “This will show you Paroo. A beautiful locale.”
Did she know how vulnerable she was with her back to him? Or was that part of the plan? Two guards hovered near the doorway. He’d be dead before he ever made it halfway across the floor. He shot a glance in their direction, sizing them up. Two males, watching him watch her. Watching him notice how her uniform fit her rear end only too well. It occurred to him one of them might be her lover. Hell, for all he knew she was servicing the whole damned ship.
Camille would have.
Stop it, Petrakos!
He dropped his gaze to his hands clasped tightly between his knees. Counted to ten in Greek. When he looked back up, she’d turned.
“Paroo,” he said. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I don’t acquire—”
“You don’t understand.” He stopped, feeling anger rise again. He waited until he had himself under better control. He wasn’t usually like this. He was a cop, for God’s sake. His personnel record lauded his calm demeanor under pressure, his ability to defuse potentially hostile situations. A hair-trigger temper wasn’t remotely in his repertoire.
And he’d never lusted after a woman like some teenager whose hormones were raging out of control.
But he’d never been kidnapped by space aliens before either. That was no doubt a big part of the problem.
“It doesn’t matter how beautiful the prison,” he said finally. “It’s still a prison.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued: “You understand that word? Prison?”
Her mouth thinned. It took a moment before she nodded. “Yes. Involuntary confinement. But you’re still free to—”
“I’m not free.”
“You are. Structure, friends, career. Anything you want—”
“I want my life on my terms.”
“You make a new life on Paroo.”
“Why should I?” He didn’t care that he was pushing her. Even if it accomplished nothing, it felt better to vent his frustration.
She started to speak, stopped. He was definitely pushing her. “It’s necessary—”
“Why?”
Golden eyes blazed. “You don’t hear my words.”
“I hear your words. I just don’t like them.”
“You will like Paroo!”
“A beautiful prison is still a prison,” he repeated calmly, because he could tell by the rising tone of her voice that she wasn’t calm.
She flung her hands out in a gesture of exasperation as a torrent of unintelligible words poured from her lips. None sounded like English or Vekran. All sounded angry. One of the guards cast an alarmed look in her direction. He realized she was probably swearing a blue streak at him in Alarsh. Then she stopped, her mouth a tight line. She was breathing hard.
He arched one eyebrow. “Now you know how I feel.”
A chair lay on its side at her feet. With a rough movement, she reached down and righted it. She set one knee on its seat and leaned against its back, her arms crossed.
Classic defensive posture, he noted. Something he’d said rankled her. God, it felt good to analyze, to think like a cop again.
She glared at him. “I understand your situation, Petrakos. Much more than you can know. You don’t understand mine.”
“Sure I do. Beam down, shoot pistol, kill zombies. End of story.”
“Nils.” She almost spat out the unflattering term. “This is the prime reason we no longer involve nils. You have no…” and an unfamiliar word, maybe three, “planning and complexity. In a covert mission where we have no dirtside base of operations to facilitate…” More garbled words. But he began to catch some of them. It wasn’t always the word. Sometimes it was her accent, her pronunciation.
He still couldn’t figure out why it was so important to her that he accept being sent to Paroo, but he clearly heard her frustration in dealing with the zombies. No, not just with the zombies. With his world, low-tech by her standards. It was almost amusing, except he knew that he’d be at a similar disadvantage in Artistotle’s day or, hell, even during the American Revolution. He could probably fire a musket, but riding a horse with any degree of competency was beyond him. People would peg him for a stranger, if not a total idiot, within ten minutes of talking to him.
He knew from friends who worked undercover how important it was to be able to blend into the setting. Officers lived under false identities for months—years—to become part of the drug culture or a terrorist’s cadre.
And her people’s sole operative on his world was a shrink-wrapped corpse with wet, bulging eyes.
An idea—small but maybe workable—formed in his mind. A bargaining chip. Why hadn’t he seen this before?
“Wayne, your agent.” He recalled what she told him in the ready room earlier. “He was key to stopping this zombie herd, wasn’t he?”
She stopped mid-rant, studied him as if surprised he had the intelligence to ask the question. “I explained. The data in his T-MOD. This is of critical importance.”
“But so was he, right? He lived in the apartment, what—three, four months? He spoke Engl—Vekran?”
“As well as he did Alarsh.”
The idea grew. If it worked, he’d be back home restringing his guitar very shortly. But he needed more information first. “Why did he choose my city, my locale?”
“The zombies chose your locale. They like warm water, electromagnetic storm activity. Other reasons.” She shrugged. “But those are two prime factors.”
And the Tampa Bay region was famous for its warm beaches and violent thunderstorms. “So the Guardians send Wayne, he learns the lay of the land and then provides you, the trackers, with a base of operations.” He thought of the dead man’s bungalow, heavily ringed by shrubbery. Very private. “Your people can beam in, work from there.”
“Necessary. We can’t utilize an air attack. Our craft aren’t like yours. Your government would—”
“I understand. I know what covert is. I’m a cop. Security,” he amended, remembering that was the term she’d used.
“A sergeant.”
He nodded, only half-hearing her acknowledgment. He had his bargaining chip. And, if he played his cards exactly right, he’d also have his freedom. A shiver of excitement raced through him. Don’t get anxious. Set it up right so that she thinks it’s her idea. Then she goes back to her mission commander and makes the offer. “What happens now that Wayne’s dead?”
She smiled grimly. “A big headache. For me.”
“You?”
She nodded. “My mission.”
“In charge of everything?” He made a circle with one hand. And if her answer was yes, he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news.
“I’m very good at my job, Petrakos.”
He took that for a yes. “I know. I saw.” He had to get her on his side. More than that, he had to convince her he was on hers. “But you don’t have Wayne’s apartment to use. You have his data but not his field expertise. You don’t know shit from Shinola about daily life.” He caught her frown. Good. He used the expression deliberately to remind her she didn’t fully speak his language. “My squad, my security force, was investigating Wayne’s death. You don’t even know what we may already know about the Guardians.”
That frown deepened. “Thank you for adding to my headache.”
“Regrets.” He used her expression of apology, inclining his head slightly as if he meant it. “We’re in the same business. I understand what you face now. I guess maybe life on Paroo won’t be that bad. New structure, new friends. No problems. Not like your situation.” He prayed she didn’t have some built-in alien telepathic lie detector.
Relief softened the tense line between her brows. “You understand.”
“I know
you have more-serious problems to deal with than whether or not I want to live on Paroo.”
“Very serious. But it’s also important to me—to us—that you know we’re not without regrets. We wish you bliss.”
“You’re trying to save people’s lives. I’m sor—regrets for causing you trouble.” He forced his mouth into what he hoped was a sincere smile.
“It’s normal. Change is difficult for many to accept.”
Good, you’re buying it. Hook, line, and here comes the sinker. “That’s because people from my world haven’t seen what you have. We don’t have your experiences, your tech.” Now let’s start to reel you in, slowly. “You’re very good at being a tracker. It’s a shame you’re starting with three strikes against you.” The frown was back. An admission, again, that he knew the language and she didn’t. “You have a disadvantage,” he reiterated. Ah, she got that. “Of course, you could always delay the mission a few months. Live there yourself. Then start—”
“We don’t have that kind of time. Unless you want to see more of your people dead?”
“I swore on my life to protect my people. But that’s your job now. Too bad we can’t switch places,” he added in an offhand manner as he concentrated on keeping his words simple, understandable. It was critical she followed what he had to say next. “Just imagine: you could relax in Paroo, a place you know. I’d fight the zombies in a city that I know as well as you know this ship. It’d be very easy for me to have people come and go in my house. Big backyard. Thick bushes. Very private.” He held his breath. C’mon, c’mon, pretty lady. Connect the dots. Don’t make me do it for you.
She was very still, her face blank. Then slowly she eased down onto the seat of the chair. Her arms relaxed. She was thinking, hard. He could see it in the movement of those golden eyes, in the pursing of that lovely mouth.
Okay, one more thing. This would seal the deal or nothing would. He stood, casually strode the few steps to the table, picked up the cube. Images of white beaches ringed by lush green mountains flowed in his hand. It could have been Hawaii. Or Tahiti. “Looks nice.”
She shot to her feet. “Petrakos.” There was life in her face, her eyes all but dancing. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”
She turned and, barking something out in Alarsh to the guards, sprinted through the doorway. It closed behind her.
Theo sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, turning the cube over and over in his hands. He was always a pretty good poker player. But this was the first time he’d ever gambled for his life.
5
Pietr drummed his blunt fingers on his desktop. “I have no problem with your appropriating this nil’s structure, Commander. However, I have serious reservations about having him participate in the mission.”
“I fully understand. But his structure isn’t a transient rental, as Agent Wain’s was. That’s the disadvantage. His neighbors know him. They’d question our presence unless he was there. On the positive side, his presence would remove a great deal of suspicion. And he is involved with the local security force, sir. He has access to information that could be vital to us.” Jorie hesitated, well aware she was asking permission to do something that most likely had never been done before on a nil world. She couldn’t begin to guess how many general-procedure regulations it violated. No, she could. Seven.
“He knows too much about us. How can we be sure he won’t relay that to his superiors in that same security force?”
“We can’t. But as long as the zombies are a threat, I don’t believe he will. He admits he needs us, sir. We leave and hundreds, thousands more will die.”
The captain nodded slowly.
“He’s not your average nil, sir. He has security training. He faced the zombie without panicking.”
“I don’t want him facing zombies, Commander. I want his structure and his knowledge of the locale.”
“Yes, sir, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. We don’t know what he’ll do after it’s over, and that’s my concern. Do we reward his assistance by a hard-termination? We’re not the Tresh.”
“He’s accepted relocation to Paroo.”
One silvered eyebrow arched. “Has he?”
“He indicated as much.”
“And a man’s never lied to you, Commander?”
Jorie’s cheeks heated. Hell and damn. But it wasn’t Lorik’s lies Pietr was asking about. “That’s always a risk.”
“Yes.” Those same fingers that had drummed the desktop now tapped against broad lips. “But less of one if we use a restrainer implant.”
Jorie forced her face not to show the slightest sign of revulsion as an icy chill shot through her. Restrainer implants were used to control violent prisoners. The Guardian version wasn’t the same as the one the Tresh Devastator operatives had used on her, but still, unease sprinted on spiked toes through her gut. Petrakos wasn’t violent. He was willing. He wanted to help. He had a good face.
And now she had to tell that same good face that they not only wanted to inhabit his structure but invade his body as well.
Petrakos was seated at the table, eating the sweet-bulb slices, when she returned to his quarters. She sat across from him and slowly began to detail her plan: the use of his structure to facilitate equipment and personnel transport. The use of his knowledge of his locale to fill in the gaps in Danjay’s data.
Would he be willing to deflect suspicion from them if his security force raised questions? He agreed, readily, enthusiastically. He’d seen a zombie. He’d seen Danjay’s corpse. Two very compelling arguments.
“Captain Pietr and I express deep appreciation for your assistance.” She’d poured herself a glass of water but couldn’t drink it. She kept her hands folded on the table, afraid she’d make nervous movements that would betray her state of mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about the implant. A fatal charge that could be detonated on a whim. At max level, instant death. But the Tresh had never been so kindly. No, the Devastator operatives had used low-level pulses on her. Wave after wave of incredible, unending pain while the Tresh commander, Davin Prow, stood there and smiled his angel’s smile.
She shoved the memory away.
“It’s the least I could do,” he said. “You’re the ones taking all the risks.”
It took her a moment to fully translate his words. She was sadly out of practice with her Vekran. The more she spoke to him, the more she remembered. She just wished they were talking about something—anything—else. “Part of that risk is your knowledge of us. You understand, when this is finished, you still must go to Paroo.”
He picked up his glass, took a sip of water. “It looks like a beautiful place.”
He would like it there. He would find bliss. Think of that, she told herself. Not what you have to do to get him to Paroo.
“The captain…the captain requests one further effort from you, as to your intentions.” Hell’s wrath, she shouldn’t have stumbled over her words. He put his glass down, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“He wants me to make a statement, an oath? I can do that.” He paused. “You understand the word?”
“Oath. I understand. No, we have to…” Damn, damn, damn! It took all her concentration just to sit there. And her mouth seemed to have forgotten how to speak.
“You have to…?” His voice was low.
She drew in a breath, let it out. “Put a security device on you.”
His frown of suspicion turned to one of puzzlement. “An electronic monitoring bracelet?” He circled his wrist with his fingers. “Transmits a signal so you know where I am?” He shrugged. “That’s fine.”
“Yes. No. Not quite like that.”
“Oh?” Suspicion returned. “And just what is it like?”
She barely registered her fingers splaying over the area beneath her shoulder next to her collarbone. Her thumb found the rough scar easily, even through her uniform’s fabric. “It goes here. Inside. Implant.” She glanced down at her fingers, the
n back up at his face. It showed no expression whatsoever, and that chilled her. “You understand this word?”
He nodded slowly. “And just what does this implant do?”
“It’s a security device,” she repeated. “Yes, it locates you. But it also…if you become a threat to us—”
“It kills me.”
Oh, if only he spoke Alarsh! Or her Vekran was better. But that was the very reason they needed him. “If you become a threat to us,” she repeated, “it permits us to take appropriate action.” She waited to see if he questioned her words. He only stared at her. She continued: “The device has different settings. Hard-terminate is not the only one.”
“What’s the other?” There was a sudden bitterness in his voice. “Slow, painful torture?”
She’d wondered if he understood her explanation. He did, far too well. “We won’t need to use it with you. You want to help us destroy the zombies. You’re willing to relocate to Paroo. You’re not a threat. You come back to the ship. We remove it. It’s forgotten.”
His hand clenched and unclenched on the tabletop. “If I refuse this security device?” He said the words with obvious derision.
“The mission proceeds without you.”
“Damn it!” He slammed both hands on the table, then shoved himself out of the chair.
She shot to her feet, hand on her pistol, and questioned her decision to leave the guards outside, door closed. But he was striding away from her, not toward her. He reached the far bulkhead, stopped, but didn’t turn. She watched the angry rise and fall of his shoulders in silence.
He shoved one hand through his already spiky hair and then dropped his arm to his side. Finally, he faced her. “That’s one hell of a way to treat a friend.”
Her voice, when she found it, was not much above a whisper. “Regrets, Theo Petrakos.” She meant it. The knowledge of what that implant could do—its searing, crippling pain—was still fresh, even after ten years. She didn’t wish that experience on this man who was willing to help her, this man who, in his own world, was a protector of others. This man with a very good face who, under different circumstances, could well be a friend.
The Down Home Zombie Blues Page 7
