Tracker

by Cyndi Friberg

  Xorran led her to a small adjoining room from which the entire detention area could be viewed. The front wall of the room was one massive display that had been segmented into smaller images. Xorran greeted the two guards by name, but neither did more than glance at her. Did everyone presume she belonged to Xorran simply because they arrived together? The conclusion probably worked to her advantage, even if it was slightly annoying.

  One of the guards pushed his hands into a holographic grid, known as a control matrix. With a few fluid movements, he filled the left half of the display with images of the elf from multiple angles.

  “He’s been sullen, almost pouty, since he got here,” the same guard explained. “It’s hard to know for sure, but I don’t think he’s very old.”

  “Has he spoken, attempted to communicate in any way?” Xorran asked.

  The guard shook his head. “Just sits there with his hands fisted, staring straight ahead.”

  Now that she was safe and well-protected, Sara looked at the elf more closely. Sleek honey-gold hair angled across his forehead and framed his narrow face. The pointed tips of his elongated ears peeked out of the gleaming strands. Like his father, the elf had amber eyes and thick dark lashes. His body was long and lean, not yet filled out by maturity, and years of strenuous exercise.

  An opening appeared in the opaque energy field surrounding the elf and Torrin stepped into the cell. The area seemed to shrink as his tall, muscular form filled in the empty space. His bearing was aggressive, gaze slightly narrowed.

  “Are you in contact with your people?” he asked in Sarronti.

  The elf’s head snapped to the side and he shot to his feet. “You speak our language. How is this possible?”

  Xorran touched her arm and asked, “What are they saying?”

  She quickly told him.

  “I’m asking the questions,” Torrin said, his tone cold yet calm. “Answer honestly and you won’t be harmed. What is your name?”

  The elf’s chin angled up and defiance burned in his amber eyes. “My father is General Cagor Alonov. If you know our language, you should know what that means.”

  “I didn’t ask your father’s name. I asked yours.”

  The elf licked his lips, his gaze nervously darting about. “Farlo. Farlo Alonov. I am Ayrontu, so I expect to be treated with the civility that requires.”

  Torrin glanced toward the camera providing the security feed. Ayrontu? Do you know what that means?

  The word hadn’t translated for Sara either, so she thought, No clue. See if Farlo will explain.

  With a subtle nod, Torrin turned back to the elf. “Ayrontu has no English translation. What does it mean?”

  One of the elf’s brows arched dramatically. “You speak our language, yet know nothing about our designations?” He sniffed, then averted his face. “I will tell you nothing.”

  “Fine. A few days without food or water should change your mind.” He took a step toward the door.

  “Wait! Send word to my father and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  That was easy, maybe too easy. The elf wanted Torrin to think he was terrified, but sharp, cool cunning kept flashing in his amber eyes.

  “Tell me something interesting and I’ll send word to your father,” Torrin countered.

  “It is common knowledge, so I see no harm in telling you. We have six designations. Each is determined by a family’s standing in the community. Ayrontu is the top designation. We are leaders, the families with wealth and power.”

  “What are some of the other designations?” Torrin wanted to know.

  “Layot designates artisans and teachers, merchants and farmers. Their designation is the largest, most inclusive. Manual laborers belong to Witernel.”

  “What is the lowest designation?” Though his face revealed nothing, a hint of anger crept into Torrin’s tone.

  “Niffal.”

  “And who belongs to Niffal?” His anger was obvious now.

  Farlo looked confused by Torrin’s hostility. “Slaves and bondservants, though there are currently very few slaves. Does your society not have designations? You seem angered by the structure.”

  “The levels might not be quiet so defined, but I think most cultures have such designations.” With his hands clasped behind his back, Torrin slowly approached. “Did your father order the taking of female prisoners?”

  “No!” he all but shouted the word. “That was all Toxyn. We were supposed to cause trouble, start a fire or two. No one said anything about taking prisoners.”

  “Which one was Toxyn and why did you follow his lead?”

  “He’s designated leader of my team. I had no choice.” His expression smoothed, though he still sounded defensive.

  Torrin nodded. “And which one was he?”

  “Toxyn has greenish-blue hair and is unusually tall for a Sarronti.”

  Sara translated the conversation for Xorran, feeling almost sorry for the elf. He was little more than a child, and Torrin was seriously intimidating.

  “Will Toxyn harm the females?”

  “No.” Yet the elf’s hesitation spoke louder than his denial.

  Sara shifted her weight from one foot to the other as anxiety bubbled up inside her. Heather might be safe from Toxyn, but the general was another matter.

  “What was Toxyn trying to accomplish by stealing two of our females?”

  “He’s a fool,” the elf snarled. “He’s so determined to make a name for himself that he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.”

  Challenge arched Torrin’s brows. “And yet you said he won’t harm our females.”

  “He won’t be allowed to harm them. Once my father learns of my imprisonment, he’ll take control of the situation. I guarantee you’ll be dealing with him, not that idiot Toxyn.”

  “How many fighters does your father command?”

  “Thousands.” He glared and then amended, “Hundreds of thousands.”

  One corner of Torrin’s mouth twitched, the reaction so subtle it was doubtful the elf noticed. An initial response was more accurate, and obviously Torrin knew. “Do you live below ground by choice or necessity?”

  “We go where we will and live as we please.” With each exchange, the elf’s arrogance grew and his believability diminished. “You should pack up and leave this place before my father destroys you utterly.”

  Torrin indulged in a lazy smile, clearly amused by the elf’s vehemence. “I thought Toxyn was the only Sarronti who makes war on women.”

  The elf just glared.

  The smile gradually faded and Torrin’s expression hardened. “We have a room onboard this ship equipped with ultraviolet light. It allows us to grow food while in space. How long will you survive if I lock you in the room?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I promised not to harm you if you answered my questions honestly. I suspect you just lied to me. Care to change your answer, or shall I find out for myself?”

  “Sunlight is harmful to us,” the elf admitted after a tense pause.

  “How harmful,” Torrin persisted. “How long will it take you to die? A few days or a few hours?”

  “My tolerance is stronger than most. I’d last a week or more.”

  Torrin accepted the information with a nod. “One of your females speaks English. How did she learn our language?”

  For the next two hours Torrin questioned the elf. What little he revealed, Sara already knew, but it was nice to hear Arrista’s information confirmed by a second source. Finally, Torrin left the detention area and joined them in the control booth.

  “He’s not going to say any more,” Torrin concluded. “He might be young, but he’s stubborn and prideful. He’ll die rather than endanger his people.”

  Xorran nodded, his expression tight and thoughtful. “I know the overlord won’t be thrilled with the outcome, but thanks for your assistance.”

  “Anytime.” Without another word the assassin-turned-interrogator left. />
  “So what’s our next move?” Sara asked.

  Xorran shrugged, but his expression was anything but indifferent. A muscle twitched above his jaw and complex intensity smoldered in his dark eyes. “I guess Arton will contact Isolaund and propose the prisoner exchange.”

  “And in the meantime Heather remains at the mercy of General Alonov.” Sara shook her head, frustration cutting through her helplessness. “We have to do more. There has to be a way to rescue her tonight.”

  Xorran moved closer and lowered his voice, though the effort was likely wasted in such a small room. “We searched every inch of that forest. The entrance or entrances are there. We just can’t detect them.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed. “I couldn’t see the exit we used seconds after we emerged from the Underground. They’re using some sort of shielding technology, or they can literally cast spells.”

  “They will make the trade,” Xorran stressed. “Heather will be back with us very soon.”

  Sara wanted to believe it. She just prayed “very soon” would be enough for Heather.

  When they returned to the barracks, they found the overlord sitting against the wall, the karron cub curled up on his lap. The sight was so inconsistent with his ferocious reputation that Sara couldn’t help but smile.

  “Any luck?” he asked, absently petting Weniffa’s soft fur.

  Xorran responded before Sara could order her thoughts. “He confirmed a lot of what Arrista told Sara, but offered nothing new.”

  The overlord nodded and carefully eased the cub off his lap. “I’ll let Arton know.” He stood and paused to stretch out his back. “You two need to figure out how to control the cub in the morning. This place will turn back into a construction zone, so leaving her here isn’t an option.”

  “Understood,” Xorran replied.

  “In fact, if returning her to Isolaund isn’t an option, you need to come up with long-term strategies for her too. She’ll need fresh meat and water, exercise and stimulation that doesn’t include mauling any of us.”

  “Understood,” she echoed Xorran’s word, but didn’t manage to replicate his calm tone. The thought of waiting around for Arton to contact Isolaund was giving Sara an ulcer. She could still hear Heather’s terrified pleas as Arrista hurried Sara out the door. “Please let Arton know that time is of the essence. See if Isolaund will guarantee Heather’s safety. I’m really worried about her.”

  “You focus on the karron. We’ll take care of Heather. You have my word that she is my top priority.”

  His sincerity was small comfort in the face of all she knew. Still, she nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  The overlord left a few minutes later, leaving Sara alone with Xorran. She sat near the karron cub, positioning herself much as the overlord had sat.

  Xorran took several blankets off the stack of supplies and spread them next to her. “You should get some sleep. You look tired.” He motioned toward the pile of blankets.

  Little wonder after all she’d been through in the past twenty-four hours. “I am exhausted,” she admitted as she scooted over onto the blankets. “But I’m too wound up to sleep. Does that make sense?”

  He nodded, lips curving in a tentative smile. “I’ve been there many times.”

  “I need to think of something other than Heather.” She sighed. “Can we just talk for a while?”

  “Of course.” After an awkward pause, he pulled off his boots and joined her on the makeshift bed. “What would you like to talk about?”

  She looked at him, struck again by his rugged good looks. He had a quiet intensity that smoldered, rather than blazed. He was controlled and disciplined, using only as much aggression as necessary. It was a trait many of the Outcasts lacked, and she found it surprisingly attractive. They stared at each other for a moment before she realized he was waiting for her to answer. “I know you haven’t been with the Outcasts very long. What made you join?”

  He tensed, his gaze shifting to the wall directly in front of him. “I was in the RPDF for the majority of my life. It’s the only option for most battle born males.”

  “The RPDF?” Almost without thought, she reached over and buried her fingers in the cub’s soft fur.

  “Rodyte Planetary Defense Force. My homeworld’s military. I was taught to follow orders without hesitation and to protect the chain of command. I was dedicated and loyal, even after most of my friends had joined the rebellion. I’d made a promise, took a vow. That meant something to me.” Despite the devotion he described, pain shadowed his gaze.

  “What happened?” It was obvious this wasn’t where the story ended.

  “Military life suited me and I quickly fulfilled most of my goals. My last position was first officer aboard the Triumphant. My commander was Apex General Bidon Paytor.”

  “Apex general? That sounds important.” She ran her hand along the cub’s back, soothed by the softness caressing her fingers.

  “He commanded the entire Rodyte fleet and answered only to the planetary monarch.” His deep tone was filled with pride and a soft sort of wistfulness.

  “Okay, so you worked for the head honcho.” She smiled. “Was he a good commander? Did you enjoy working for him?”

  “I enjoyed being aboard the Triumphant. The ship was brand new and massive. It had capabilities that none of us had ever seen before.” He didn’t say any more for a long time, then added, “Paytor was...flawed. His pursuit of the rebels became an obsession he used to justify all sorts of rash and radical actions.”

  “I can see why that would make you want to leave, but why join the Outcasts rather than the battle born rebellion?”

  “I betrayed Paytor, made it possible for the rebels to capture him and take possession of the Triumphant. Even though I’d helped the rebels, to most I was still a traitor, unworthy of trust.”

  She shook her head, absently stroking Wenny’s back. “That doesn’t make sense. If your actions benefited their cause, why wouldn’t they trust you?”

  He shook his head. “I betrayed my commander. What’s to keep me from doing so again if the next enemy offers me more than the battle born have to give? Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

  She narrowed her gaze and studied him. Despite being an outlaw gang, the Outcasts were actually picky about who they invited to join their ranks. If the overlord invited Xorran, then his decision to betray Paytor had to be justified. “Why did you switch sides? There’s usually a specific reason, a catalyst that motivates people to act. What was yours?”

  “Paytor ordered me to assassinate someone. It wasn’t a military offensive. It was coldblooded murder.”

  That made no sense at all. “You’re a tracker, not an assassin. Why wouldn’t he have sent someone like Torrin?”

  “Long involved story that I’d rather not get into right—ever. I’m not that person anymore. Suffice it to say, my trust was misplaced and I’m thrilled to be parted from all of it.”

  “Can I ask one final question about your past? It will be the last one, I promise.”

  He sighed, long and loud, but said, “Sure.”

  “Power like yours must be controlled. How did you learn how to use your abilities?”

  “I was less than a year out of training when a crewmember didn’t report back in after a mission. His teammates insisted he hadn’t been captured and he was still on the planet where the mission took place. I instinctively knew where he was but explaining how I knew meant admitting I was clairvoyant. I struggled with the decision for many hours, but finally told my commander. He was shocked yet intrigued by the revelation, so he told his commander.” The story grew progressively more unpleasant after that, so he hesitated.

  “What happened?”

  “I was transferred to the science division and was ordered to allow whatever testing the doctors and scientists required. At that point my empathy was unimpressive, but a male being born with any active ability was highly unusual.”

  “How long were you their guinea pig?”
<
br />   “Four and a half years.” He looked at her, gaze filled with shame. Then he looked away. “When understanding my abilities wasn’t enough, they began augmenting them. It was even more horrendous than you can imagine, but it made me very powerful. Very useful.”

  She reached over and touched his arm, waiting until he looked at her to say, “Your people betrayed you long before you turned on Paytor. I’m glad you joined the Outcasts. Rodytes don’t deserve you.”

  Something in her words, or tone, made him smile. “The decision was easy. I refused to trade one master for another. I wanted an entirely different sort of life, the sort the Outcasts are trying to build.”

  As the intensity of his confession faded, awareness returned. She felt the heat of his skin sink into her palm and the solid shape of his forearm beneath her fingers. She wanted to open his shirt and explore his amazing chest.

  He raised his hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Then he slipped his hands under her arms and swung her toward him, bringing her across his lap, facing him. She quickly folded her legs to either side of his thighs and straddled his lap. He was so much taller than her that their eyes, and mouths, were nearly on a level. His hands settled on her hips, anchoring her in place without touching her any more intimately.

  “Now you know what brought me here,” he told her. “I know you’re second guessing your decision, but why did you volunteer in the first place?”

  Unable to resist her need to touch him, she placed her hands on his chest, then ran them up onto his broad shoulders. “My childhood and adolescence was a mostly pleasant sort of chaos. I had loving parents, but their generosity often spread them too thin, especially from the perspective of their children.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” His already deep voice took on a whispery growl that sent shivers down her spine. He still wasn’t touching her anywhere but her hips, yet the position was undeniably intimate. Restlessness set in, making it hard for her not to wiggle and rock, rub herself against him.

  “I have three biological brothers, and there was a continual stream of other kids flowing in and out of our lives.” Rather than wait for him to voice his confusion, she clarified, “My mom and dad were what’s called foster parents. They took in children who had lost their parents, or whose parents were no longer taking care of them. Sometimes the foster kids would stay a few weeks. Sometimes they stayed several years. My parents were even willing to take on those with complicated medical issues, so the authorities took advantage of them.”