Hera (7 page)

Hera banged her fist on the desk. Nobody
outside the Undercurrent was supposed to know the importance of
Pelia’s work. Pelia had been betrayed.

A traitor walked among them.

Icy sweat trickled down Hera’s spine and her
hands trembled. Knowing she had no time for a breakdown, she shoved
her fear deep inside its box. A quick search of the message pool
showed her that the shipment had not yet been found. She sagged in
her chair, releasing a pent-up breath. Then who had it?

Her eyes narrowed.
The boy
. He must
have the shipment. Pelia’s chauffeur, right? Sort of an adopted son
she’d recruited from a monks’ factory on Ost. He’d been with her
when she was shot, and therefore was the only person to whom she
could have given it.

Hera pushed back her chair, grabbed her
longgun and her glitcher from a drawer and stood. Others had
already seen the images. They would be searching for the boy right
now.
Dammit all to the five hells.

Holstering her gun, she stepped out into the
lobby of the administration offices and strode out and down a
passage leading to the great auditorium of the Echo Palace. Turning
abruptly left at the fresco of the butterfly garden, she headed to
the main hangar. Her mission was compromised. It was imperative
that she found the boy, and time was running short.

As she crossed to the helicopters, she nodded
a greeting to the hangar officer, a tall, lithe woman with ash
blond hair in a braid. While climbing into the first helicopter in
the row and powering up the system, she gazed at the woman.

Curvier than most, filling out her gray
uniform well, the young officer turned to stare back at Hera, fine
features locked in a scowl.

Hera winked, blew a kiss and raised her
forefinger and thumb, flashing the woman an “all well” sign. Then
she took the helicopter out of the hangar and up over the Tower’s
white turrets and green groves, over the grey slopes of the
mountains and then the boring plain.

She would find the boy — if he’d made it out
of the shooting alive.

Chapter
2

B
lood seeped between
Elei’s fingers.

The small wound was above his left hipbone.
He pressed down harder to staunch the bleeding and gritted his
teeth. His pulse leaped under his palm as he sat shivering on a
hard, cold bench. He rested his other hand on the grip of his
holstered gun. In his blurry eyes, everything had a shimmering
edge, suspended between reality and dream.

Then the world tilted.

Danger.

Elei jerked and sharp pain erupted in his
side. Hissing, he drew his gun and waited. His possessed eye
throbbed; cronion, the strongest of his resident parasites, hated
surprises. The world lit up in bright colors.
Be ready
. His
heart pounded in his chest, sent bruising beats against his ribs.
He swallowed past a dry throat and gripped his gun until his
knuckles creaked.

Nothing moved. Oblong objects around him
pulsed in cool hues of green and blue.
Safe. Nothing living
.
He relaxed a little. For a while he simply sat, left hand pressing
against the wound, the cold metal barrel of the gun held against
his right thigh.

“Hey, you,” a man’s voice said from
behind.

Clamping his jaw, Elei lifted the gun and
turned to point in the general direction of the voice. Cold wind
blew his jacket hood back, allowing him a wider view. The man
appeared at the right periphery of Elei’s tainted vision — a splash
of red. He went still when Elei cocked the hammer. The click rang
too loud in the quiet.

“Calm down, will you,” the man said, raising
his hands. “Just checking on you. You’re bleeding all over my
boat.”

The boatman
. Elei let out a breath and
lowered the gun, but didn’t click the safety back on, just in case.
The cold breeze ruffled his short hair and water splashed and
murmured. The low hum of an engine set his teeth on edge. What was
he doing in a boat out at sea? He prodded his memories, but came up
blank.

Cronion beat at the back of his eyeball like
a hammer. He forced his tense muscles to relax and rubbed his eye
with his thumb until the dull ache eased. This time, when he
blinked, he saw the surface of things, his unfamiliar surroundings
— the wet prow, moonlight glinting on metal benches like the one he
sat on, yellow lifesavers underneath them. The boatman stood by the
rail, dressed in shabby trousers and a pale yellow shirt, watching
him from under his dark cap. The light from a lamp set on a bench
pooled around him. The sky stretched naked above, night-black and
starry.

The boat rocked and listed. His legs slid. He
was falling.

He threw his hands to the sides, to find a
handhold, the gun screeching against metal. His fingers caught the
edge of the bench. He clutched it, the deep, sharp pain in his side
squeezing the air from his lungs, and he bent over, panting.

Broken pieces of memories rushed back with a
deafening roar.
Shots fired. Running through the streets. The
docks of Ost.

He was crossing the straits between the great
islands.

Shivers crawled up his spine. He lifted his
hand and stared at the blood on his fingers. He’d been shot, but
couldn’t remember who’d done it.

Elei groaned to himself. He laid his gun — an
antique, semi-automatic Rasmus — on his lap and wrapped his arms
around himself, tucking his icy hands under his armpits; hoping
fervently this was nothing but a dream, and knowing he just wasn’t
that lucky.

“Hey.” The boatman approached him, stepping
over the benches with his long, spindly legs. Red color flashed
over his heart, pulsing with each beat.

Elei straightened with a wince and raised his
gun. It seemed to have grown heavier; he could barely lift it.
“What do you want now?”

“We’re almost there.” The boatman’s voice
resonated with a hidden growl. When he raised the
dakron
lamp, its light revealed a leathery, deeply lined face and bright
blue eyes. “Better get ready to jump, do you hear?”

“I heard you.” Elei kept the gun leveled, his
arm muscles straining.
Where in the hells are we?
Cold sweat
sluiced down his back. His nostrils flared and his body tensed with
the urge to run.
Run where?
He was in a boat, for all the
gods’ sakes, and yet he knew that even here, in the openness of the
sea, he couldn’t afford to relax.

Holstering the gun, he struggled to rise but
his damn legs cramped and resisted. Shivers danced down his spine
and adrenaline made his blood pump faster, so it trickled down his
side, scalding his chilled flesh.

“Hurry up, boy,” muttered the boatman and his
hand closed around Elei’s arm like a band of steel. “We can’t
linger here.” He hauled him up as if he weighed nothing, the
movement sending sharp claws of pain deep into Elei’s side.

Hells
. Elei gritted his teeth and
refused to make any sound as the boatman dragged him to the rail
and left him there, the boat rocking with the movement. Muttering,
the man went back to his steering wheel and navigated the boat
through the dark waters.

In the distance, squat buildings, old
warehouses, rose from the white mist of night. Starlight reflected
off polished gray walls. The vacant pier jutted out into the sea
like an arm of stone. The boat swerved toward it, then slowed down
and bumped to a stop, thumping gently against the square
blocks.

Elei inhaled the humid air and tried to get
his bearings, to remember something, anything. In the end, he had
to admit defeat. “Which island is this? Is it Kukno?”

“Are you saying I tricked you?” The boatman’s
voice was dry. “We’re right where you told me to take you.
Dakru.”

Dakru!
The heart of the Seven Islands,
risen in their perfect center, pushed out of the depths of the sea
by the gods — at the beginning, before their divine hands molded
the flesh of fish and birds, and then man. Elei stared at the
shore, not quite believing he was there.

Until the boatman planted a heavy hand on his
shoulder and shook him. “Hey, snap out of it. Pay me my second half
and jump out now, or the sea will have you.”

Looking into his hard eyes, Elei had no doubt
he meant it. He reached into his pocket and took out his thin wad
of bills. Blood ran in a hot line down his hip as he counted and
gave over the money. The boatman counted it again, eyes darting to
the remaining bills and Elei’s gun peeking out of the holster.

Not good. Grimacing, Elei climbed out of the
boat, scrambling on hands and knees to keep his balance on the
blocks of the pier, fumbling in the half-darkness as the sea sang
and sighed all around him and cold water sprayed his face. His left
wrist throbbed, felt slightly sprained. His body felt numb,
uncoordinated; the pain in his side echoed in his limbs, in his
head.

Like an insect, he crawled on the giant
squares, skinning hands and knees, until he finally reached the
pier road. He could have wept for relief. Maneuvering his heavy
legs, he climbed to his feet and glanced back at the boat which was
already speeding away — a speck blacker than blackness, a white
line of surf. Then he turned with a knot in his stomach to face the
unknown shore.

The island was Dakru, but which city was this
one? A memory returned and Elei frowned.
Krisia
. The boatman
was supposed to drop him at Krisia, a small enough seaport to avoid
Gultur police control. What had possessed him to go there?

Elei staggered along the pier toward the
storehouses lining the seafront and the wound hurt like a son of a
bitch with every step. He should have hidden in the mountains of
Ost until he figured out what happened.

Nobody in their right mind would come to
Dakru. The Gultur presence was stronger there. Their capital, Dakru
City, the Gultur stronghold, rose in the center of the island,
dominating the plains at the feet of the rugged mountains, and the
dakron
mines spread around it in a spiderweb of power. The
source of the Gultur wealth lay in the control of the
dakron
mines, where the mineral fuel, pure and invaluable, was extracted.
The police presence would be stronger here as well. And he was an
illegal migrant.

This is mad. Why would I…

Someone had chased him. A face he knew, a
man’s hard features, surfaced in his memory.
Falx?
He
wondered why Pelia’s head of security would go after him, though it
made no difference now. Nevertheless, it explained why he’d chosen
— wisely in retrospect — not to travel with legal transportation
over the immense bridges between the islands. He’d still been able
to think when he’d boarded the boat, body pumped full of
adrenaline.

Now the images, the words, the thoughts
turned hazy. He stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath, his
hand clenching on his side.
Just move
. He licked his lips,
his throat raw from thirst, knowing he couldn’t rest there — too
conspicuous, too dangerous.
Keep moving
. He had to get to
Artemisia. He knew that. And from there…

Elei grappled with the memory. Where did he
have to go? An address, he had an address. Where was it? His hand
dove into his pocket and drew out a crumpled scrap of paper. The
letters jerked and swam in his vision.

There
. He must get there. A name. And
a place, an address. He wondered how far he had to go, how easy
it’d be to find transportation and whether streetcars ran that
stretch. He pushed the paper deep into his pocket, patted it. The
knot in his gut unwound a little. He had a goal.
Get there. Just
do it.

Go to Aerica.

Find Kalaes Ster.

The sequel to Rex Rising, due out end
2011:

Rex Cresting

Book Two of Elei’s Chronicles

Still recovering at a hospital on the north
coast of Dakru, Elei is convinced that his part in bringing down
the Gultur is over. Rex has infected the other race and their
dictatorial system is starting to collapse. Not every Gultur,
though, has been affected, and on top of that, inside Elei’s body,
Rex has matured and goes through another transformation. Elei isn’t
sure he can survive Rex’s new strength — but that is the least of
his worries, as the Gultur descend on him again.