But her concerns were interrupted by the sound of a low sigh and slight cough. Real sounds. Not vid entertainment.
Petrakos shifted in his sleep, his hands fisting, the blanket sliding off his legs to the floor.
Jorie picked it up and studied him for a moment. His short hair was still damp. He was probably chilled, with no shirt on. She could see the slight redness on his shoulder from the implant. And the hard curve of muscles on his arms and chest, both sprinkled with dark curling hair.
But it was his face that drew her gaze again. She couldn’t say exactly why she found it pleasing. Other than it was an intelligent face, a hardworking face—a face that had laughed and a face that had wept.
The man and the female on the vid resumed arguing, but she ignored them and leaned over Petrakos, fluffing the soft blanket over his chest.
Strong hands slammed against her shoulders. Jorie flew backward, landing on her rump with a yelp of surprise. Her elbows hit the floor, pain shooting into her arms as she went flat on her back, one large hand on her throat. Hard thighs locked her legs to the floor.
Then dangerously narrowed dark eyes widened and Theo Petrakos gave his head a small shake. “Ah, Cristos. Jorie.” He removed his hand carefully from her throat and sat back on his haunches. “I’m—regrets. You okay?”
She unfolded her fingers from around the G-1 on her utility belt with no memory of how her fingers had gotten there. But then, from the look on Petrakos’s face, his reaction was the same. He hadn’t intended to hurt her.
She could have killed him.
She relaxed her body. “Optimal,” she said. “But better if I’m not on the floor.” She levered up as he grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him. Her face ended up brushing against his neck. He smelled warm and male and slightly soapy. More than slightly blissful.
And it was insane, crazy for her to even think this way. She scooted back and was pushing herself to her feet when he cupped her elbows, drawing her up against his so warm, so very bare chest.
She knew if she found her face in his neck again, she would be sorely tempted to take a taste of him. So she looked up instead and found in his dark gaze an unexpected confusion. Did he know she had this overwhelming, frightening desire to nibble her way down his half-naked body?
“Theo,” she said, wanting it to sound like a reprimand but, hell and damn, it came out sounding more like a plea.
Noise boomed out from the vidscreen. She twisted out of his grasp, aware of his gaze following her before he shook his head slightly. He snatched a small rectangular box studded with buttons from the seat of his chair. He pushed one and the voices stopped, the image going black.
He stared at the blank vidscreen for a moment, then ran one hand over his hair. He faced her. “I think it’s time you told me what’s really going on.”
“I have told you—”
“Bits and pieces. Then you disappear back to your ship and leave me standing in the rain.”
She could tell by the sharpness in his voice that that had bothered him. “I know it makes no difference, but that wasn’t my decision.”
“Let me guess. Rordan.”
She sucked in a slow breath. “Commander Rordan did what he thought was right.”
“Right for the mission or for himself?”
She hadn’t quite figured that out yet. “He maintains there was the danger of MOD-tech leakage.”
“So he doesn’t know what you do, or does he?”
Hell and damn, this was not where she wanted the conversation to go. She only returned to assure herself of his well-being and to check current data on the tech running in his structure. Not to stare at his bare chest and indulge in foolish fantasies. And not to argue about what had to be done. “I do what I think is right for the mission and all involved, Sergeant Petrakos.”
“A minute ago I was Theo. I pissed you off, didn’t I?” He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his gray pants and rocked back on his heels.
She was at a loss with that last comment, but his body language spoke to her loud and clear. “I don’t know what this ‘pissed you’ is. But if you would prefer to argue over words rather than cooperate with me, then so be it. I still have a job to do.” She spun away from him. She’d go back to studying the data on her MOD-tech in his small room. Nice, cooperative data that always spoke to her in a language she understood. Not an argumentative nil who didn’t know how to follow orders, who questioned her decisions in matters he knew nothing about.
And that, she knew, was one of the key problems. Petrakos was not a man to blindly follow orders. He refused to act like a nil. He wanted full information on what was going on.
Jorie was a commander who was used to working with team members who already had the information—or had faith that Commander Mikkalah did.
Petrakos took nothing on faith.
And—even if doing so didn’t violate ten different gen-pro regs—Jorie had no time to fill in the gaps in his knowledge.
If only he were a Guardian tracker…For a moment she let that fantasy blossom, seeing him—with his talents—as her teammate, her partner. He was a bit more conservative, where she was impetuous. But he was also more proactive, where she had a tendency to be too analytical. With a start she realized they’d probably work extremely well together, balancing each other’s shortcomings. And they might even possibly—
No. Of all the things she had no time for, she had no time to be distracted by the heat generated by his touch.
She’d settled cross-legged on the floor, keyed in her first request, and was studying the pattern when he padded in. He folded himself down on the floor and held a tall glass out to her.
“Truce.”
She looked at the glass—water?—and then at him. In spite of her mental chastisements, her annoyance at him faded. If he really wanted to make amends, she noted wryly, he’d put on that shirt he’d draped around his neck. But she couldn’t tell him that, couldn’t risk his laughter if he figured out how increasingly disconcerted she was by him. Handsome Kip Rordan’s smiles left her cold. But this nil’s feral grin tempted her beyond reason.
It must be that she was tired, hungry, and thirsty. She took the glass with a nod and sipped at it. Water. Ice cold. She knew this planet-bound nil had no idea how precious a commodity ice water was on a ship. She closed her eyes a moment in appreciation.
When she opened them, he’d pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them. “What happens next with the zombies?”
“That depends on what Lorik—Dr. Alclar finds with the one we captured.” She nodded her head upward as if the ship was directly above them, which, for all she knew, it was. “The herd is in a rest period again. The feeding frenzy—”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
She looked back at the screen. “That may have been my fault.”
“Because you tampered with the tech stuff.”
“Theo.” She let out a short sigh. “It’s best that you forget I ever mentioned that. If you were to say it, even in accident—”
“When Rordan’s around.”
“—it could have negative consequences.” She turned back to him.
“I can keep a secret.” He grinned. “So what happened?”
“I don’t know.” She flicked her fingers at the screen. “Nothing indicated a frenzy would result. I’m…better than that. And now everything is as it should be. The zombies are in a state of negative activity. But…”
“But?”
“But if the zombies have developed the ability to think, to plan, then that would explain their unexpected reaction. The frenzy. It might also mean that everything we’ve known about them to this point may no longer apply.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “How would they learn to plan?”
“Only two possible ways. One, a highly unlikely but natural mutation. Or two, an unnatural tampering. A reprogramming.”
“You think someone reprogrammed them, don’t you?”
This
time she was silent, wrestling with what genpro regs said she could and could not reveal. What Pietr would do if he knew she’d disclosed certain aspects of Guardian history and procedures to a nil. Yet ignorance could kill him. “It’s not supposed to be possible. Someone would have to gain access to the C-Prime without killing it or getting killed. The only way would be through the Mastermind Code.”
“And that’s not possible because…?”
She slanted him a glance. “The only person who knew the code died over two hundred galactic years ago. No one has been able to re-create it since. We’ve tried. Believe me, we’ve tried. Our best scientists, mathematicians, and no one has been able to obtain it.”
“Until now.”
She nodded slowly. “Until now.”
“And whoever has this code controls the zombies?”
“No. Whoever has this code, Theo, controls the universe.”
12
Life, Theo Petrakos decided, was not cooperating with him at all. It ruined his vacation, trashed his car, dumped unwanted houseguests into his accustomed solitude, threatened his planet, and made him start to care—far too much—about a woman he had no business caring about.
All in about twenty-four hours.
He couldn’t wait to see what the next twenty-four hours would bring.
Invasion and subjugation by something called the Tresh, according to Jorie. Though probably not in the next twenty-four hours. That would take a little longer, she assured him. Like a week. Just when he’d be back on the job.
Oh, joy.
It was almost midnight. Tomorrow, he realized with surprise, was Christmas Eve. Aunt Tootie and Uncle Stavros would be sitting at their kitchen table sharing vasilopita, the traditional Christmas cake with the lucky florin inside. And he was sitting across his kitchen table from the woman he had no business caring about, watching her devour her second first-ever peanut butter and jelly on white bread sandwich with an expression so rapturous it was damned near erotic.
When she lovingly licked stray morsels of peanut butter off her fingers, Theo shoved himself out of his chair and headed for the refrigerator. He needed a glass of something cold. He really needed to pour it over his body, but drinking it would have to do. He reached for a beer but changed his mind and pulled out a can of orange soda instead. He might not be formally on duty, but he needed his mind clear.
“These Tresh tried to take over your government ten years ago?” He thought of all the wars that had erupted on Earth over the centuries. Most inevitably boiled down to you have something and we want to control it, even if that something, like with the terrorists, was the way you thought and believed.
“The Border Wars started eighteen years ago, ending about ten years past. But we—the Interplanetary Concord—have had issues with the Tresh since before I was born.” She broke off the corner of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “You have wars on your world, yes?”
He nodded. “Lots.”
“Then you know. It’s never clearly only one issue. It’s always part economics. With us, the concord regulates the spacelanes, regulates trade for the seven systems and thirty-four sectors within its jurisdiction. Over two hundred fifty years ago, the Tresh broke all agreements, pulling out. They tried blockades. We tried sanctions.” She shrugged. “I’m not a politician.”
“Two hundred fifty years is a long time to fight.”
“Not when the people you are fighting have no words in their language for compromise or negotiation.”
Point well taken. “So the concord invented the zombies to keep the Tresh from using your spacelanes to trade?”
“Initially, zombies were used to monitor the Hatches and detect possible contamination from visiting ships and crew. Infections. Viruses.”
Like the CDC. Or perhaps more like the way shuttle astronauts were quarantined upon return. He nodded.
“When the Tresh became a threat, the functions of the herds were augmented to be proactively defensive. But,” she continued, “as I told you when we were on the ship, that failed. The zombies themselves became a problem. The Guardian Force then had to take over security of the Hatches and, with the tracker division, eliminate the zombie threat. Most of the zombies were successfully terminated when the concord realized the malfunction. But a few rogue herds escaped. Those are what Guardian trackers have been hunting ever since.”
“So when will this Lorik guy have an answer on the zombie’s brain?” He leaned against the front of the refrigerator, regretting for a moment that he’d pulled a T-shirt on. The cold metal against his skin would help. Jorie had dipped her spoon into the peanut butter jar and was now sucking on it with that beautiful mouth of hers as if it were a peanut butter lollipop.
Lord, give him strength.
“Twenty sweeps, most likely.”
Twenty hours before Jorie would have to present her captain with two options: Plan A—continue to destroy the zombies, or Plan B—prepare for an attack and invasion.
On Christmas Eve.
“But Lorik will not accept that as final proof,” Jorie continued. The tip of her tongue traced the edge of the spoon. Theo took a long swig of ice-cold soda from his can.
“He’s already indicated we need to bring him another zombie. Alive. Not a juvenile this time. He needs to see how far this mutation has progressed.” She hesitated. “You understand my words?”
He nodded. He did, more and more, now that his ear had become accustomed to her accent and now that her English—or Vekran, or whatever it was—had improved. “So that means you’re going to have to do funny stuff with your computer again to capture one.”
She shot him a look that clearly said he wasn’t supposed to mention her funny stuff. “Essentially, yes.”
“When and where?” He intended to be there.
She examined her empty spoon, seemed to consider dipping it in the peanut butter again, but after a moment placed it on her plate. “Thank you. That was most excellent.”
She pushed her chair back and stood.
“When and where, Jorie?”
She was heading out of the kitchen. In two strides he was right behind her.
“Jorie.”
No answer.
“When and where, Jorie?”
“I don’t know yet,” she told him when they reached the middle of his living room. She turned left into the hall.
Evasiveness, thy name is Jorie Mikkalah.
He followed. “When will you know?”
“Not in the next few sweeps.” She stopped in front of her blinking computer equipment and rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand. “I need a three-sweep nap, minimum. Five would be bliss.”
She’d turned away from him, and something told him she was…prevaricating. Not lying, not quite. She was tired. Hell, he was tired. But there was another layer to whatever was going on here.
He stepped around until he could see her face. She had a smudge of peanut butter on one cheekbone. Probably had it on her fingers and it came off when she rubbed her eyes. In spite of the situation, that made him smile.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You missed some.” He swiped at the peanut butter with his index finger and held it out for her inspection.
“Ah, treasure!” She grasped his hand, brought his finger to her mouth, and licked.
Heat rocketed through his body. That was followed by a sudden cold draft on the back of his neck, an icy chill, as if someone had opened a door to the North Pole. He watched Jorie’s eyes—which moments before had fairly sparkled—narrow.
“Commander,” she said, releasing Theo’s hand.
She wasn’t talking to him, he knew that. Not just because that wasn’t his rank—she wasn’t looking at him. And he had a feeling he knew who she was looking at. His initials would be P.A. Uncle Stavros would call him a malaka.
Theo angled around. Yep. Pompous Asshole Rordan had joined them. And, from the expression on his face, was none too happy.
Rordan stepped toward them. Six-one, two-ten,
Theo judged. Even in his stocking feet, Theo was taller, though not by much. Pretty ponytail aside, a lot of Rordan was muscle. Theo judged that too. He wouldn’t look forward to going hand-to-hand with the guy. But he could take him down if he had to. He’d taken down bigger ones.
“Jorie,” Rordan said, then a long sentence in their alien language. It left Theo feeling at a disadvantage again, though he’d begun to catch a few familiar words. Like nil. But the rest was still unintelligible. He didn’t like that, so he used the time to watch the man’s expressions and movements as Jorie replied with a short series of more unknown words.
What he’d initially thought was anger on Rordan’s face shifted to something else. Disapproval? Maybe. But why?
Because you’re a nil, Petrakos, that’s why. And she’s here talking to you.
“Problems?” Theo asked Jorie, keeping his own expression neutral.
Jorie opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. Theo realized he needed to teach her to speak Greek, a language he hoped Rordan wouldn’t know. Fair’s fair.
“Commander Rordan was concerned because I wasn’t on board the ship,” she said after a moment.
Is he your keeper? Theo wondered, then gave Rordan an understanding nod. They were, after all, supposed to be on the same side. “She’s safe here.”
Rordan ignored him and spoke to Jorie again.
“Sergeant Petrakos is also part of our team, Commander,” Jorie said evenly. “A team that will work much better if we all speak the same language.”
Theo watched Rordan closely. The man did not want Theo party to what was said. So he was surprised when, seconds later, Rordan lowered his gaze for half a heartbeat, then shrugged.
“My Vekran,” Rordan said slowly, “need have practice. But,” and he faced Theo, “when things have importance, I speak such. Since is impossible that nil speak Alarsh.”
Nice little put-down. The nil could never learn Alarsh. Wanna bet?
“So I say again,” Rordan continued. “You are over your time to work here. Nothing has critical. Five, six sweeps, you have nap.”
“I’m not sure we have five sweeps.” Jorie crossed her arms over her chest. “The zombies have changed. We can’t trust old data to be accurate any longer.”
The Down Home Zombie Blues Page 16
