allies and enemies 02 - rogues (34 page)

Her answer was pure Sela logic: “To what end?”

“So we can be everything to each other. Husband. Wife. Father. Mother.”

He felt her head tilt up against his chest. In the semi-dark, it was impossible to guess the look on her face.

“You ask because you wish to procreate…with
me
?” The surprise in her tone made him feel odd, guilty. Sometimes she clung to the inequity of her origin, no matter how many revelations made it no longer true.

“I ask because I love you. And I want this. Always.” He caressed her warm naked back.

Another long pause in her breathing. “Later. Ask me again later.”

“Later?”

She answered with a kiss. Her hips shifted against him. Her hand traced a distracting pattern down his stomach. His body responded her touch. Her proximity was his weakness.

The weeks drew on. They let the question stretch between them, neither coming back to it. Never once did he consider this stalling as her response. Not Sela Tyron of the quick temper and quicker reactions.

Could he blame her, really?

What did she know of marriage beyond brief sanitized glimpses into the world of her once-masters, or the romanticized ersatz of a holovid entertainment? Perhaps she had thought he’d made another of his jokes.

It stung to think that she’d dismiss this as another barely understood jest.

He had meant it. Still did.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the long stare of the barkeep, an Onari female, with skin the color of an overripe joolid berry and a mop of dark bristly hair. Easily two heads shorter than he, but probably strong enough to snap him in half. He stiffened, realizing he’d been muttering to himself.

I should get back to the Cass, do what needs to be done.

Churn the cancerous ship back to life. It’d been weeks since they’d last stirred the tanks. Spool up would take forever, regardless of the smaller size of the velos.

Every fiber in his being wanted to stay on Hadelia. Here: this place in all its rusted-out corrupted glory was where Erelah would be.

Why?

You going to tell Sela you had a dream? A gut feeling based on what? A hunch? Oh, she loved it when you had a ‘hunch.’

It was Commander Logic’s invite to argue. He envisioned the way her shoulders would stiffen, creep up a millimeter toward her ears in Sela’s very subdued version of a cringe. And the purposefully flat mask she would make of her face. The expression she used whenever he said or did something particularly strange. Even out in the wilds, far away from the life of a soldier, she was still much too disciplined to say it. Instead she would say something neutral, like she were repeating something out of a manual called “What to Say When Your Superior Officer Has Gone Mad.”

Leaving felt too much like defeat. It meant giving up on Erelah. There had to be a way to get Ty to listen. To believe him.

Koenii had to be dealt with but that was nothing compared to what they’d gone through to get here. Bounty hunters. Crazy half-breed Defensors. He and Sela had taken out a shadow station, for Miri’s sake. Well, that had probably been more due to the heavy-grade fire of the assault team sent to capture them, but still, surviving it had to count for
something
.

He shrugged. It earned another flat-eyed glare from the barkeep. He was very aware of his appearance. Too clean to be a regular. Something too proper about him, no matter how he was dressed or how well he flattened his accent. Kindred were particularly disliked and blamed for all manner of ills. Even things that had happened in the decades well after the Collapse.

Jon took another sip of the opaque blue-green liquid from the tumbler and tried to relax. The creatures that populated this particular run-down tavern were probably more interested in getting comfortably numb than bothering him.

He was not
intentionally
getting drunk. He just wanted things to get a little blurry, the sharp thoughts in his head to lose their edges.

For just a moment, he wanted it to all to be…
manageable
.

He’d finish his drink. Go back to the Cass. Sela would return from her secret mission, whatever that was. He’d tell her that he did not want to leave Hadelia. They’d argue. Again. Have fantastically aggressive make up sex and be happily sore for the next day and a half. They’d figure out what to do about Koenii.

The universe began to collapse into the container before him, which to him was a perfectly
manageable
size at the moment.

Manageable.
He took a healthy swig.

“Your name Veradin?” The deep voice interrupted the healthy haze.

Fantastic.

He studied his drink. “Never heard of him.”

The intrusive voice belonged to the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder. “If you knew someone named Jonvenlish Veradin, I’ve got something for him. Something he’d be very interested in.”

“You’re not my type.” Jon turned and immediately regretted the sarcastic comment.

The owner of the voice and hand was tall, broad shouldered, with biceps roughly the circumference of a Cassandra bulkhead. It made Jon think of the commandos that were pressed into service in bone-breaker squads. Thick tattoos ran over muscular forearms before disappearing under the sleeves of a battered red duster. His skin tone seemed slightly darker than most, suggesting a life spent in warmer climates than the weak-tea Hadelia sun. Calculating maroon eyes peered out from brute features under the closely shaven head. Another Binait swindler like Koenii. With that came another sluggish thought:

Trouble.

Subtly Jon shifted in his chair, one hand falling to the grip of his sidearm.

The move did not go unnoticed.

“Easy, friend. If that were my business, you’d be dead already.” The stranger seemed to guess Jon’s thoughts. It sounded more like a statement of fact, not a threat or boast. “Asher Corsair.”

Jon squinted. “That a name?”

“Erelah sent me to find you.” Corsair spoke in High Eugenes, accents in the wrong places, deep voice barely above a whisper. This wasn’t the kind of place where you spoke in that tongue, not if you didn’t want to become the center of some unwelcome attention. Something told Jon that Corsair could handle unwelcome attention quite easily.

“What’d you just say?” Jon struggled to keep the surprise from his voice. The name was like the kiss of a ghost. It was an icy sobering jolt. He leaned closer and pretended to study a piece of graffiti etched into the bar.

“You heard me.”

The decibel level in the tavern dropped sharply. Jon pivoted in his chair to the doorway. Corsair did the same. Two Heavy Gravs stood there, scanning the crowd.

Wonderful
.
Perfect timing.

Maybe they were working with his new friend. This was some way to lower his defenses.

“What do you want?” Jon prodded, his attention now divided between the stalking Heavy Gravs and the newcomer.
Corsair.
The name triggered a vague memory. A list of Kindred lineages. One of those things Uncle could so proudly recite.

A con. Gotta be.

Corsair, if that was really his name, was certainly thorough. Even the slightly blurry part of Jon agreed that if it was a con, it was elaborate. Koenii was a cut-rate swindler with no style. He was the kind to kill what he couldn’t take and move on. Heavy Gravs had no need for schemes. They probably couldn’t even spell the word.

“Nothing. Just you.” Corsair’s attention was on the Heavy Gravs as he spoke.

Jon watched him slide a thick-fingered hand over the pitted metal of the bar. As if by some clever magician’s trick, in its stead sat a small flat package bundled in gray fabric. Cautiously, with a similar stealth, Jon took the strange offering. With a sick tremor, he recognized the cloth. It was the dark gray fabric common to Fleet utilities, the last clothes he’d seen Erelah wearing. Tucked inside was a datchip. A tiny red light on it indicated that it bore a recording.

“Erelah. What color are her eyes?”

“Green. Dark hair. Smartest person I’ve ever met. One of the most annoying too.” Corsair sounded impatient now. “She prays to Miri after every meal like one of those robe-wearing freaks. And there’s this interesting little birthmark just above her left—”

“What is this?” Jon skewered him with his gaze.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘This is a take.’ I promise, it ain’t.”

“She’s alive?” Jon shut his eyes. He and hope had become estranged friends, functioning on a nodding acquaintance only.

“Yes. But I don’t know for how long.” Corsair exhaled the answer. There was a longing quality to his voice.

“What the Sceelah is that supposed to mean?”

“Left her sick. She’s with a splicer says he can fix her. But he has need of you for the works of it.”

“What splicer? Where? Sick with what?” He forgot about keeping his voice low.

“Someone I trust. Back on Narasmina. And I don’t know how to explain the sick part, save it’s happening because of what was
done
to her. By Ravstar.” He felt the stranger’s eyes on him, measuring. “She said you’d understand that last part. Some things she still won’t explain to me, no matter what.”

No matter what.
Jon did not know what to make of that.

Fates, this is insane.

He ran a thumb over the datchip and its patiently blinking red light. “What’s this?”

“A message for you.” Corsair’s words were drawn out as he continued to watch the Heavies. “We knew you’d need convincing. Tyron more so.”

We?
There was this sense of intimacy to suggest his sister and this cagey-acting man were somehow…
together
.

“How do you know—”

“I’ll answer all your questions. Let you count my teeth. But somewhere else. Not here.” Corsair tilted his head at the two Heavies. They drew closer through the crowd. “Your two friends are going to make their way over here soon. That’s a confrontation we both want to avoid.”

Even if he wasn’t going to buy what this guy was selling, Jon agreed that it was time to leave. Hastily he threw a small pile of chits onto the bar to cover his tab and rose. Commanding his feet to take on his weight was an absurd challenge. Beside him, Corsair towered, his moves sure and firm by comparison.

Things had marched beyond manageable to well out of focus. He swayed.

“Easy.” Corsair put a hand up to steady him. “How many of those you have?”

“Just one,” Jon answered. It came out:
jus’un
. Something was definitely wrong.

The big man lifted Jon’s cup and sniffed. He arched an eyebrow. “Barkeep dosed you. Probably tipped off the Heavies. You pissed someone off.” He sounded impressed.

Jon cast an angry glare at the Onari. She’d been watching and now sneered with needle-sharp teeth.

“We leave.” Corsair gathered a fistful of his jacket.

“Okay.” Jon nodded. His neck was rubber.

“Now.”

“Right.” He took a step forward and his knees instantly folded.

Corsair caught him under the arm before his face hit the muck-covered floor. That should have hurt, but many things were numb from the neck down. Dark edged into his vision. Jon shook his head, trying to clear it. The room doubled.

“Guess we do this the hard way.” Corsair exhaled.

As the remaining strength left his legs, Jon doubled over and an enormous shoulder rammed into his gut. His feet left the floor. Thickly, he watched the blurry legs of furniture and patrons slip past. The noise of the crowded room succumbed to the roar of blood rushing to his head as Corsair carried him.

Ty is going to be
so
pissed.

81

Breathe. Count to ten.

Sela focused on her breathing, envisioned the air filling her lungs. Her heart continued on its predictable clockwork. An acrid burning threatened to eat at her calm and turn her hollow. It was best to ignore the tightness that squeezed her throat and the hazy blur at the corners of her vision.

You’ll not bear again. Not for any man.

Stop it. You thought…what? That this would be easy? Perhaps it was a mercy, passed out by one of Jon’s Fates. What could you have possibly offered a child, save a life of want and hardscrabble luck?

She felt entitled to this anger and had no wish to deny it. It was not every day you met your creator and found them lacking, or learned your perceived gifts were designed to satisfy their vanity.

The labyrinth of dwellings rose up around her on all sides. It was now what passed for full night here—a dismal purple haziness that never surrendered to black. The rain flung itself from the sky with savage intensity, as if it had meant to begin earlier and then suddenly remembered. The icy water ran down the back of her neck before she could get the hood of her coat up. The sharpness snapped her senses awake. She was no longer alone.

A dim silhouette disengaged from the curtain of rain: tall, the broad shoulders of a muscle-bound body. A shape that could only belong to a Heavy Grav.

The metal canyon of this shantytown was no place to get boxed in. She needed room to move, an avenue of escape. Sela pivoted at a dead sprint, headed for the open mouth of the alley. In a spray of wet gravel, she took a corner and nearly collided with a second form, just as imposing. Her reaction time was better. She zagged left, avoiding the sweep of a thickly muscled arm.

Using a support strut as a foothold, she pushed up, right hand grabbing the roofline of the container, and used the momentum to swing her body up. She spared a quick glance to the man below her, heard a cheated curse before setting off on a sprint along the tops of the containers. The hollow thud of her boots against metal blended into the drumming of the rain.

From here, she had a good line of sight to the more open area of the street that led back to the port. There she could disappear.

Leaping, she cleared a gap in the containers. She would run out of rooftops before hitting the entrance to the street. The spaces between the boxes were becoming wider and it slowed her pace. She heard the heavier rumble of metal and checked. One of her pursuers had pulled his bulky frame up onto the rooftops. She watched as he recovered his footing and set off on a lumbering sprint. Four roofs away. A clumsy thudding leap. Now three.