Allies and Enemies: Exiles, Book 3

by Amy J. Murphy

  He regretted allowing his companion to start him down this what-do-you-miss-most-about-back-home game. After all, Doctor Rachel Northway was still technically a prisoner.

  Three years in and six weeks overdue to be cycled off of Roughbook, Chapman had finally got off station. Miraculously, Wren had seemed to grow a pair, maybe because Snowden’s death pushed him into making some decisions that didn’t involve hiding inside some alien rock. He’d ordered a raid on some little mining op no one had ever heard of—a place the locals called Tintown. They’d gone in expecting a simple snatch and run, some terrorist Wren wanted to interrogate, but instead Chapman’s squad found heavily armed Genies with an ax to grind. During the firefight to capture the enemy command hub, Chapman took a hit when a random Genie dick-munch used their nasty, metal-shredding version of a claymore. A piece of shrapnel missed his spine by an inch. The medics patched him up, but he got benched for the rest of the tour. (However long that turned out to be.) It also meant he got to be a glorified babysitter for Northway.

  “I was never much for beer,” said Northway. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her cell. “I was more for whiskey. Nice single malt. Nothing too peaty.”

  Chapman sniffed. “Must have been making the big bucks. Ain’t never been able to afford that stuff, not at my pay grade anyway.”

  She waggled her eyebrows. “Who said I ever paid for it?”

  He stifled a laugh, realizing that some decorum was necessary.

  “You’re cheating.” Chapman narrowed his eyes and sent a glare over the top of the cards in his hand. Granted, the thick glass door of her improvised “protective custody” negated any threat his look might have implied.

  Northway scoffed, unimpressed. “You just suck at cards. Besides, not a good idea to cheat when your opponent has one of those.” She reorganized the cards in her hand, pointing her chin at his AR-47 assault rifle, leaning against a locker behind him.

  “Winona.”

  “What?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “You named your gun?” Northway asked with a giggle.

  “Not a gun,” he corrected, directing his frown at his hand. Great. Two more useless cards. “It’s a rifle. AR-47 Lancer. State of the art in hybrid plasma-ballistic tech. Cuts through Genie armor like hot through ice—”

  “Okay. Got it. You’re in a serious committed relationship.” She slid her single discard through the meal tray slot and smirked at him, taking up her new card.

  Anyone else and he would have put a hurt on them for just making such a queer-ass joke. But Northway was…different. He more than tolerated her. Which was more than he could say for the rest of the geeks on Roughbook.

  For one, he could actually talk to her without feeling as if she was dissecting him like a new kind of space bug. Most of his squad had cut him off after he got benched. They seemed to think he liked sand-bagging it, sitting in the same room for twelve-hour chunks of time with nothing to do. He knew it tightened up their duty roster.

  Northway was okay company to keep. She’d been “out there” in the big black. She’d seen some shit, participated in said shit. She’d hung out with honest-to-God alien space pirates. That elevated her to kind of a badass in Tyler’s book. Plus, she really managed to get under Wren’s skin whenever he deigned to drop in, which seemed to be less and less. The major was getting bat-shitter by the day.

  Besides, Tyler felt like he owed her somehow. He’d given her shit since day one. Part of it had been him trying to impress Hoffs. He’d had a thing with the medic for a little while. Hoffs had ended it, something that rankled still.

  Tyler couldn’t recall exactly when he started talking to his prisoner. At first, it was an act of defiance, an easy way to lash out. No one had expressly ordered him not to interact with Northway, after all.

  He felt bad for her only after she learned about Miranda Station’s demise. Three months before Chapman had shipped out to Roughbook, Hub Coalitionists had launched a protest there, demanding better whatever rights, benefits, lawn furniture. Blah. Blah. Blah. The usual workers’ rights bullshit. Things escalated in a hurry. Some of the protesters had thought sabotage was a good idea to make a point. It turned out to be a deadly idea. They were still trying to figure out why the big meltdown, Tyler guessed. But no more Miranda. Anyone not killed in the initial containment breach was crispy critters from high rads in a matter of a few hours. The wreckage would be unapproachable for a thousand years.

  Turns out Northway’s girlfriend, some sort of botanist, had been on Miranda. The doc was quiet for days after he’d told her. He felt bad for her. Hell of a thing, to finally make it back to your fellow Humans only to find out that your little corner of home didn’t exist anymore. Miranda Station was never again mentioned.

  “You get any answer out of your fearless leader? Or is he still giving that isolation excuse?” She sounded too casual, tense.

  In truth, no one was answering Tyler’s inquiries. Not his CO. Not Hoffs. Nada. He knew they were being read, just ignored. He had the urge to lie and offer some kind of false hope, but Northway seemed to have x-ray vision.

  “Nobody answering much these days.” He shrugged, resting his forearms on his knees. “Not many left.”

  She leaned forward, cards forgotten. He caught a glimpse of her hand: the makings of a straight. “Meaning?”

  He reshuffled the deck, sloppily. His left arm still felt like pins and needles and sometimes his hand stayed numb for hours. The docs couldn’t fix that, not with the limited tech they had out here. “Found Anders outside an airlock this morning.” He cocked a finger against his temple, mimicked pulling a trigger. Clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Service pistol.”

  But that hadn’t been the way his bunkmate Childs had told it. Anders had eaten it, barrel and all. Tyler hated that officious prick of a squad leader, but that was a bad end. Painting the walls with your brain. Knowing that guy, he probably chose the airlock to make the cleanup easy. A by-the-numbers guy until the end.

  “That’s three now.”

  “Four,” he corrected. “If you count that weird Genie, whatshisface...Maynard.”

  Northway went very, very still. “Maynard. You’re sure?”

  “Sure as shit. Had to babysit his pasty ass too.” He bit his lip. “No offense, doc.”

  “None taken.” She sounded distracted. Her attention was focused on the entrance to the outer hall.

  He turned. Standing in the doorway was a very worried looking Esmeralda Hoffs.

  Eleven

  Northway watched Chapman through the thick partition. The young woman, whom she remembered as the world’s worst lab tech, had seemed nervous, on edge. There was no haughty tilt of the chin. Her actions were furtive as she set about locking the door behind her and deactivating the security camera.

  Rachel got the sense that there was a history between Chapman and Hoffs—a strange match, in her humble opinion. Then again, close quarters sometimes made for odd bedfellows. That was how she’d met Sasha, after all.

  “You even listening to what you’re saying, Essie?” Chapman challenged.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s not just me. We’ve got proof.”

  “Proof how?” Rachel asked.

  Hoffs stepped up. Anxiousness seemed to vibrate off her, even through the glass. “We’ve got Wren on the security feeds talking to himself, erratic behavior. There’s enough to prove that he’s no longer in control of his faculties.”

  “So? He went to the zoo,” Chapman countered. “Your boyfriend was always wrapped a little too tight.”

  The young woman flashed him an angry scowl. “Tyler, for chrissake. That was months ago. Let it go—”

  “You think there’s something else,” Northway interrupted. “Not just a psychotic break.” She thought about the Wren-suit. The strangeness of the man who once stood where Hoffs now did and taunted her. Gooseflesh prickled her arms.

  “No, Dr. Northway, it’s something else. His whole personali
ty has changed. The Miles Wren that I know would never breach protocol like this. He definitely wouldn’t send a detachment of Marines to capture some…terrorist in a stasis box. It’s a huge risk to our mandated seclusion. There’s something really wrong here.”

  Rachel asked Chapman, “How much time did Maynard spend with Wren?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Few hours a day.”

  “Did Maynard ever mention someone called Erelah Veradin?”

  “Mention?” Hoffs replied. “He’s obsessed with her.”

  The small room seemed to compress. Thoughts shifted against each other, colluding to a new shape, staggering in its malefic simplicity. The truth had come to gloat and stare at her through the glass of her cage, all the while wearing its shiny new Wren-suit.

  It’s her. Tristic became Maynard. And then Wren.

  Somehow.

  Hoffs paced in front of the glass partition. “He’s ignored status briefings. The laserlink with Vesta has been dark for three days. And he didn’t bat an eye when he learned. In fact, he sort of…laughed,” Hoffs said with a small shudder.

  Rachel got the sense that the young woman was building up to something unpleasant. There was something more urgent driving this. Realization prickled the tiny hairs on the back of her arms and neck. “You’ve found Erelah, haven’t you?”

  “We just got word. The Marines are coming back with her body right now. And if whatever has a hold of Miles gets what it wants, I think it’s bad news for all of us.”

  Twelve

  Erelah Veradin had been captured.

  It was all Tristic could do not to sprint through the corridors of Roughbook.

  My girl. My beautiful girl.

  The Human assault team dispatched to Narasmina sent word of their success. In a short time, Erelah would arrive. Incredibly, the girl’s body had been housed in a stasis unit. A curious development. Had Tristic chose to believe in such laughable things as spirits and saints, it would seem evidence of their intervention.

  My would-be killer and my salvation returns to me.

  Too excited, Tristic roamed the corridors, ignoring the acknowledgment of the Humans she passed. She wanted to be the first thing the girl saw upon waking. Erelah’s terror would be a victory of sorts, retaliation for the death of the Questic, a small retribution for the perils visited upon Tristic.

  Something that felt like a smile stretched across her host’s face. The essence of what was Wren had days ago stopped his incessant struggling. She hoped he would fade like a distasteful memory.

  Soon I shed this inelegant vessel and reclaim what is meant for me.

  A soft chuckled slipped out.

  Tristic chewed the inside of her mouth, her habit of late. It brought the strange metallic taste of the host’s blood, a sensation that she found invigorating. This body was dying. It was written in the pallid cast of the skin, made to look sicklier still by the quality of the lights the Humans insisted on using. It was moments like this, in close proximity to the others of his kind, that Wren was most combative, seeking a means to fight Tristic’s control.

  Tristic caught a wary glance of the passerby—one of the civilians, from the style of its dress. Dressed in the loose-fitting white jacket of the lab techs, the young woman had dark hair pulled back into a severe twist. It did nothing to make her look more mature than the child she was.

  Hoffs. That was this creature’s name.

  Tristic gave her one more look, careful to make her moves less jerky. Certain mannerisms and motions seemed to unnerve the others. Not that she cared. But the less suspicion raised, the better.

  Hoffs looked away, but not before Tristic glimpsed it…something wary and intelligent. Had this woman detected something amiss?

  Several of them had raised objections to the use of native bounty hunters in the search for Veradin and her cohort, Asher Corsair. Ultimately, Tristic had over-ruled their complaints, but not with the same authoritarian command enjoyed by a Regime commander. The Humans that belonged to the military division of this outpost—Marines, they called them—were willing to follow Tristic’s edicts. The civilian scientists openly voiced their dissent. Strangely, they acted as if Wren would heed their objections. Hoffs’s voice had been the loudest. The woman was nothing if not dogged. Tristic sensed that perhaps this host and the young woman had engaged in some sort of intimate relationship before.

  Wren had been surprising in his tastes.

  “Carter said you told him to stop working on repairing the coms relay with Vesta.” The young woman stood shoulder to shoulder with Wren as they waited for the level riser—the elevator, they called it—to arrive. Like much of everything else, it was appallingly inefficient and a piece of Sceeloid tech they’d overridden for their narrow purposes.

  As in every other exchange, Tristic had with her, Hoffs was showing a signature lack of respect for Wren’s position, an attitude that filtered into every gesture and nuance.

  How Tristic longed to snap this annoying Human’s neck.

  Soon, she stilled herself, it will no longer matter.

  “A waste of resources at present.”

  “Waste of resources? Really? That is our lifeline out here. You’re more worried about meeting some alien prisoner? We should be shutting down the systems, taking them apart piece by—”

  Tristic forced the host’s expression into a stern mask. “Are you questioning my command decisions?”

  “Are you even listening to yourself?” Hoffs made a scoffing sound. Of course, she was a civilian, thought herself immune from military oversight. “The Miles Wren I knew wouldn’t do this. Roughbook is at risk.”

  Tristic turned on her. Hoffs was startled at the suddenness of it.

  She felt Wren’s jaw thrust forward, his shoulders inch up. “What are you insinuating?”

  Despite her defiant stance, Hoffs seemed uneasy. “You’ve changed, Miles. No one blames you for what happened to Snowden. Maybe how you’re acting is your way of making up for it. But people are starting to doubt you. Be man enough to admit that you’re out of your depth. You were never meant to run this operation.”

  Tristic nearly exploded with laughter. That was the woman’s source of uneasiness? The ridiculousness of it left her nearly giddy. But she did heed the thread of warning there. Finally the level riser—elevator—doors opened. Wren stepped inside. “This will all come to an end quite soon.”

  Hoffs hesitated, staring in at her and frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tristic’s hand curl into a fist. She tucked it behind her back. Oh, to crush the bones in that delicate face. Instead, she forced a patronizing smile.

  The doors slid shut. Alone, Tristic uttered a rasping curse. Any Human in earshot would have heard a snarled string of nonsense vowels. A slip that she could forgive herself. The Human woman was very trying. But no mind. This would, indeed, be over quite soon. These primates could be left to starve and suffocate in this forgotten corner of the stars. She would slip away, clad in the tragic elegance of Erelah Veradin’s form that awaited her even now.

  A pity she would miss that mad, awful fun.

  Part Three

  Thirteen

  Sela stood at the edge of the landing platform overlooking a churning, muddy sea. The dense wall of an approaching ice storm blurred the horizon. Tove’s private fortress, what she called the Shallows, was carved into the side of a mountain surrounded on three sides by water. After the details of their bargain had been struck, it was essential that Maxim thought Jon, Corsair and her gone, so the twisted little woman had instructed them to take the Cassandra here to Bael, essentially a dying moon near the Thermalyea Frey. In terms of defensibility, it was close to perfect.

  The location made any surprise attack impossible. Aerial assault would do little to the thick walls of the mountain. Even a small strike team would have found it difficult to enter the stronghold undetected.

  All these things registered with Sela in one easy sweep. It was satisfying on one level: the s
oldier in her. She’d left things with Jon in a similarly bleak place. He and Corsair were preparing for their own mission to rescue Erelah. She feared he’d come to talk to her again, his voice gentle and firm as he attempted to dissuade her from her decision. That was over a day ago, ship time.

  Gusting, icy winds tore at her jacket and invaded the thin layers of her shipsuit. She’d been eager to switch out from those liar’s clothes after their arrival. It felt right. No more pretending what she was not. Especially now.

  Below, the soulless brown water churned and chewed at the massive support struts. She’d never seen an ocean before. Not like this. Not this close. There was a power to it, the restless energy of a mindless beast thrashing itself against metal and rock. Power and fury without direction. She knew how that felt.

  What now? Going back to the mud- and ice-caked landing field where the Cassandra was berthed felt somehow like hiding from Jon (which she was). The stronghold would feel no more welcoming, with the slinking Maeve watching her at every turn. Even if the feral-acting woman was going to pilot Jon and Corsair through the Fray on their mission to reclaim Erelah, Sela held little trust for her. How could anyone trust a person that the Sceeloid had kept as a pet for their amusement?

  Sela’s plan was far simpler: slip into Maxim’s compound. Kill him. Don’t get caught by any number of the multitude of power-armored personnel that guarded him day and night. If such a thing as luck existed, she would then head for the Fray and rally up with Jon and Corsair on one of the abandoned mining complexes once they’d reclaimed Erelah.