by Sharon Green
"Choices," I muttered as if it were a swear word as I leaned back again, then thought of something else. "Every time I turned around I found myself tripping over that man. If my beacon was knocked out, how did he keep finding me?"
"He must have been attuned to you," Leandor answered in an "everyone knows that" tone of voice. "Beacons are for long-range pick-ups and emergency spotting. Attuning is for close-up work, when your target might take off in any direction at any time. The base has your pattern, so attuning would be a snap."
I shook my head sourly at his idea of a snap, then brought my gaze back to his.
"If you knew someone was in that Paldovar Village because of Valdon's beacon, why didn't you show up there for a pick-up?"
"You've got to be kidding," Leandor snorted, looking outraged at the idea. "We stay away from those places except in absolute emergencies." Then he eyed me curiously. "How did you two happen to end up there?
"It's a long story," I responded with a sigh, settling down flat in the furs. "If we ever get drunk together, I might let you in on it. Right now I'd appreciate a spare corner to sleep in. Does your hospitality extend that far?"
"At least that far," he said with a chuckle, moving slightly where he sat. "You can use the spot you're on, and forget about keeping one eye open. We'll look after you for a while."
"Gee, thanks," I murmured, turning over to bury my face in the soft, warm fur. "But where were you when I needed you?"
Leandor chuckled again but didn't say anything, and it must have been a good ten seconds before I conked out cold.
* * *
Getting back to base was as eventful and complicated as leaving it had been. Fallan - Valdon, I mean - was, hustled off to the hospital area, still unconscious from a shot Leandor had given him. After stepping out of the scouter into the docking area, I had just enough time to stretch once before an escort showed up to guide me through the base proper. I thought I was being taken to Dameron's office for their version of debriefing, but instead found myself being awaited by a hungry group of medics who were dying to get their hands on me.
I enjoy popularity, but not of the medical variety, and politely declined their offer of attention. They took to insisting; I suggested what they might do with themselves in their spare time; they turned red then threatened to use restraints, and I rested my hand on the hilt of the sword I still wore. Just before the real bloodshed started, Dameron walked in.
"I thought hospitals were supposed to be quiet," he commented, stationing himself between me and my admirers. "I could hear the bunch of you back in the residential wing."
The stars of the medical profession knew as well as I did that Dameron was exaggerating, but they flushed anyway at the implied criticism. Then my most ardent admirer, the same little man I'd met when I'd first opened my eves in the base, detached himself from the rest and faced Dameron.
"Commander, it is our considered opinion that this young woman is badly in need of treatment and bed rest," he announced in that fussy way of his. "We will defer to others in any area but medicine. If we don't have the final word there, we can be of no further use to you. It is, of course, your decision."
I snorted an estimate of his considered opinion, a reaction he chose to ignore as he folded his arms and stared at Dameron, but the base commander didn't share my estimation. He seemed to be thoughtfully considering the little man's words, and when he moved his dark gaze over to me, my headache started to come back.
"Dameron," I began, intending to make my position very, very clear, but Dameron wasn't waiting to hear what I had to say.
"You've got to cooperate, girl," he rumbled, holding up a conciliatory hand. "They're only trying to help you."
"I've had enough of people trying to help me!" I snapped, noticing that the golden haze was beginning to form again. "For a change, I'm damned well going to see a little disinterested neutrality!"
My hand was at the sword hilt again, the golden haze thickening by the second, but that didn't keep me from hearing the hiss behind my back. I whirled around on the frightened medic who still held the pressure hypo and began to draw on him, but never got the chance to clear the scabbard. Dameron jumped me from behind, wrapping those oversized arms around me, holding me until the shot could take effect. I struggled to get free, intent on killing everyone in the room, but the dark took over before I could.
Chapter Ten
A small click woke me first, intruding on a deep, dreamless sleep that seemed to have been a part of me for some time. I was lying on my side, all curled up, so I rolled over onto my back to stare at a flat gold ceiling. My eyes stayed with the ceiling for a while, moved slowly down blank gold walls, then settled on the soft yellow cover over me before I reached the point of wondering where I was.
By that time I knew I was back in the base, knew where the base was, and knew that the gold walls meant the hospital area, but I wasn't quite up to remembering why I had to be in the hospital area. My head felt as though it should hurt - though it didn't - and I was bothered by an annoying fuzziness that didn't seem to want to go away.
I was still trying to sort things out when there was another click, this time accompanied by the door sliding open. Dameron came in, his steps over-quiet, his expression distracted, and the door closed behind him again as he walked to a mound chair not far from my bed. I watched him sit down with more weariness, than I'd come to expect from him, wondered what sort of a problem he had this time, and then saw his gaze come to me. He started when he saw me watching him, and leaned forward anxiously in the chair.
"You're not supposed to be awake yet," he rumbled, almost in accusation. "How are you feeling?"
"I've been worse - and better," I admitted, looking him over. "If I'm not supposed to be awake yet, what are you doing here?"
"I've been listing my sins and estimating penalties," he answered with a snort, then leaned even closer. "Are you sure you're all right?"
I took some time to roll myself into a sitting position before answering him. My head felt … tight, I guess you could call it, and the gears of my mind seemed to need a good oiling.
"I'll probably live," I conceded thickly. "What did those fumble-fingered idiots do to me?"
"If you're referring to my medical staff, they probably did the best job of their careers," he chuckled, finally relaxing a little. "You're sounding more familiar by the minute. How anxious are you to get your hands on a sword again?"
I was about to ask him what a sword had to do with anything when the tightness in my mind broke, letting in a flood of memories and associations. The time with Grigon, the time in the slave market, fighting, running, bleeding - and Fallan. The man called Fallan who was really Valdon, a man who had tried to give me a hand, a man who had fought to protect me, a man who had saved my life at least twice. I tangled my fingers in my hair and bent over with a moan when I thought of what I'd done to him.
"Why didn't he say something?" I choked out, not realizing that Dameron shouldn't have known what I was talking about. I kept my head down, rocking back and forth with the pain, and only vaguely heard Dameron get out of his chair.
"Considering what went on between you two before you left, he thought at first that it would be better if you didn't know who he was," Dameron's voice came, soft with compassion. "When you reached the woodsman's house he was about to tell you everything, but that 'bandit' attack came first. The next time you were alone together, you were in a Paldovar Village. The Paldovar already know about too many things that should be secret, so it was no place to go into explanations. But don't blame yourself for what happened because it wasn't your fault. You're the first one to react to impressions the way you did, and it couldn't have been anticipated. It simply wasn't your fault."
"Then whose fault was it?" I demanded, looking up at him again. "Who do you think that was, cutting a man to pieces without giving him a chance? Not a swift, clean death, but cut by agonizing cut, trying to make him beg for his life!"
I cut the word
s off, sickened by the memory of how pleased I'd felt, more ashamed by that than by the actual doing. Killing a man is sometimes necessary, but it had always been something that had to be done, not something to be enjoyed.
"That mind presence was too much for you," Dameron insisted, crouching down to put a hand on my shoulder. "We've removed every trace of Bellna we could find, so you won't be bothered by her persona again. Your side has been Healed, Valdon's wounds have been Healed, and you're both safely back where you belong. Why don't you try to forget about the rest of it?"
"Sure, forget," I agreed tonelessly, moving away from his hand to lie flat again. The plain gold ceiling was projecting images, so I closed my eyes and added, "There are some cartons of cigarettes among the stores on my ship. I'd appreciate the favor of having one of the cartons brought to me."
Dameron sighed without saying anything, then I heard him straighten up and leave the room. I just kept my eyes closed and fought for control.
The carton of cigarettes was brought by an amiable young thing who gave me her best friendly smile along with the carton. I nodded my thanks in a distracted way, unsealed the carton and one of the packs, then lit up and took a deep drag.
I like thinking with a cigarette in my hand, and I'd done enough cussing at myself without a blue-gray cloud around to emphasize the points. I was still in bed, still wearing the brief, one-piece garment those medics kept supplying me with, but I'd shifted to a cross-legged sitting position for better leverage on the ideas I'd been tossing around.
It was fairly obvious to anyone with a brain that I'd been a double-damned fool. I should have called a halt to the operation as soon as I found out about my alter ego, but I was too damned stubborn to admit I'd come up against something I might not be able to handle. I'd looked at it as a challenge - a challenge, for Pete's sake! - when my life and a good number of other lives depended on my being rational enough to handle a simple part.
Twelve years in the business, and I hadn't even had the sense to realize that it was Bellna growing stronger and more in control and not me. She grew to the point of being able to take over without my even noticing it, and the end result was a murderous, conscienceless little monster with the specialized abilities of a Federation Special Agent. Special Agent! I laughed bitterly. Special idiot was more like it!
No matter how long I thought about it, I still couldn't understand why I hadn't guessed who Fallan was. Looking back at it I could see one clue after another, starting with the way Grigon had acted. If Fallan had been a real Tildorani mercenary, Grigon would never have let him get the last word in about not talking to me before we left.
And that comment Fallan had made in the woodsman's house, about Grigon having been right. Grigon had probably urged him to tell me who he really was, but he hadn't agreed - until it was too late. The speed the big man had showed, the unusual amount of patience, the times he hadn't been insulted when he should have been - hint after hint after hint and none of it had come through!
I hadn't even asked where his Company was while he was looking after me in the Paldovar Village or, more to the point, why he was looking after me. Bellna wasn't bright enough to ask questions like that, and she'd been the one in control.
"Don't you ever believe in smiling?" a voice asked, and my head jerked up to see Valdon standing in the doorway. I didn't know how long he'd been standing there, and I stared at him for a minute without being able to say anything, then cleared my throat.
"Don't you ever believe in knocking?" I tried, not at all sure what else there was to say. He was back to wearing a blue uniform coverall like Dameron's, and he was back to having black hair and eyes and a ridiculously good-looking face that looked nothing at all like Fallan's, but there was something familiar about the way he stood and moved - and looked at me.
"Attack and counterattack," he observed, moving out of the doorway and closer toward my bed. "I think I recognize the pattern." Then he noticed the cigarette in my hand and stopped short. "Now what are you doing?" he asked, studying the pile of ashes I'd accumulated.
"I'm smoking," I supplied, taking a drag to prove the point before putting the cigarette out. "And what are you doing out of bed?"
"You've got some catching up to do," he commented, still eyeing the ashes and dead cigarette. "I've been out of bed for days. Apparently they found fixing my body easier than fixing your mind."
He stood no more than four feet away from me, and I couldn't keep my eyes on his face. I looked down into my lap at a pair of hands that suddenly had nothing to do, discovering that my mind was as blank of dialogue as the walls were blank of decoration. Apologizing is a snap when you don't mean a word of what you say, but the real thing tends to be somewhat awkward.
"What's wrong?" he asked, moving closer to the bed so he could sit down at the foot of it. I would have been happier if he'd left the room, but there was no getting out of it.
"Look," I blurted, bringing my gaze back up to his. "I don't really know how to say this, but it's got to be said. I had no right doing what I did to you, and I - apologize."
"Sincere and from the heart," he observed, leaning down to one elbow as he shook his head. "If I hadn't gotten to know you so well, I might have doubted your sincerity."
His sarcastic tone of voice might have begun eating away at my regret if I hadn't remembered that he had the right to be sarcastic - at the very least. I decided it was time for another cigarette, and occupied my hands and mouth that way.
"You're showing admirable restraint these days," he said, his tone still dry. "They must have done a good job on you after all. Is that all there is to it? You 'apologize'?"
I pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, exhaling a thick cloud, and stared at him without much amusement.
"That's a good deal farther than I usually go," I remarked. "Were you looking for something written in blood?"
"That would be appropriate." He grinned, making himself more comfortable. "But maybe we can think of something even better." His gaze moved over me where I sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, and his grin grew lazy. "Have any suggestions?"
I wasn't sure I understood what he was getting at - or maybe I didn't want to understand.
"I'm not feeling particularly swift today," I said, leaning back against the wall. "Why don't you try being more specific?"
"There's not much to be specific about," he responded with a shrug, keeping his eyes on me. "If you've got something you'd like to apologize for, there are more … intimate - and friendly - ways of doing it."
He just sat there watching me, that irritating grin faint but obvious, his longish black hair falling over his forehead, patiently waiting for a more … intimate apology. I studied him silently for another moment, my thoughts not quite polite enough to describe, my breath filling the space between us with light gray smoke.
"If that's your price, you've got it," I told him after the minute, the decision coming out flat and emotionless, matching a reluctant willingness to pay for my mistakes. I put the cigarette out with three or four stabs at the shallow, square ceramic bowl I'd been given, then got to my feet to remove the short body-suit. The mustard yellow color of the thing was inexplicably annoying, but Valdon wasn't looking annoyed. His gaze moved over me with a good deal of interest, and his grin widened again when I lay down next to him.
"Very nice," he murmured, still absorbed in his inspection. "Very nice indeed."
His approval was obvious, but he wasn't making any attempt to touch me. I looked up at him from where I lay on the soft yellow cover, wondering what he was waiting for. I wasn't enjoying the episode and wanted an end to it as soon as possible, so I moved my hand toward him with the intention of increasing his interest, but never got the chance. His hand shot out to grab my wrist, stopping my arm in mid movement, and the look in his black eyes sharpened.
"As I said, this is all very nice," he repeated, "but what do you expect to gain by it? Do you think I can be bought off with the chance to exercise a few muscles?"
"Bought off?" I choked, gaping at him incredulously. "What do I expect to gain - ?"
I was so mad I totally lost the ability to speak. He was the one who had wanted more than words in apology, and now he acted as though I were the one who - ! I growled low in my throat, feeling the rage surge through me, and struggled to get my wrist loose from his grip. His fingers tightened around my wrist, improving his grip instead of loosening it, making me fight harder to get free.
"What's the matter?" he drawled, grinning that infuriating grin. "You can't be thinking of giving up on the apologizing?"
"Apologizing!" I echoed in outrage, trying to calm down enough to remember how to pull loose the right way. "I'll be damned if I'll stand for this any longer! I may not have had the right to do what I did to you, but I sure as hell had the provocation! You might as well get out of here right now, because I have nothing to apologize for!"
As mad as I was, I was totally unprepared for his reaction to that. The grin left him entirely, and his eyes became as serious as his expression.
"That's right, you don't," he agreed, finally letting go of my wrist. "As a matter of fact, you never did have what to apologize for."
I gaped at him again, mechanically rubbing at my wrist, and his grin was back as suddenly as it had gone.
"You're one hard female to convince of something," he said, reaching over to gently close my mouth. "Dameron told me that you refused to understand about what had happened, so I thought I'd try my hand at reaching you. But first I had to get you mad enough to forget about the guilt you felt."
Well, he had gotten me mad, all right, but I could see he didn't understand what was really involved. I sat up and ran my hands through my hair, shaking my head at him.
"I don't feel guilty, but I do feel stupid," I explained. "Stupid and incompetent. I appreciate your effort, but there's not much anyone can do about it."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," he protested, beginning to sound annoyed. "The way you acted was a direct result of the impression and can't possibly be considered your fault. Bellna's presence was so strong and overpowering that I noticed it as soon as you'd been impressed; that's why I insisted on being the one to take Fallan's place. No one else noticed a damned thing, and wouldn't have believed me if I'd tried to warn them about it. It's also why I brought in another 'decoy,' pretending it was all Grigon's idea. I wanted to be prepared if anything went really wrong, and it gave me a good excuse for shoving you out of the center of things, where Bellna would feel at home and therefore be stronger. It wasn't anyone's fault but Clero's that it didn't do much good."
