Hybrid (16 page)

If he could have gut feelings, this one would be bad. His eyes make out two forms in the main seating area of the transport. They’re lying on the floor, bandages tied crudely, obviously in a hurry. He smells blood, lots of it, and hurries to the side of the first man, not sensing any immediate danger.

Mason is pale, sweating profusely, his heartbeat far too faint for someone his size. Dom motions Jeffries over. “Can you fix him up enough that we can get him home?”

Jeffries grimaces and kneels down next to Mason, checking his temperature, pulse, and then scanning his wounds. The leg wound is obviously the worst, having soaked through pretty much all of the bandage that also seems to be serving as a tourniquet. He shrugs uneasily. “Perhaps. Give me a few and check on the rest of the transport. Odds are the pilot isn’t in good shape, either.”

Dom nods and moves to the other body. This one appears to be in slightly better shape. Not quite as knocked up, but still bleeding sluggishly from several gashes all over his body, not to mention the baseball-sized shiner he has on his forehead. The name on the uniform is obscured by blood. Walstein or something similar. Another survivor who can at least tell them what happened out there.

He looks toward the console and suppresses his immediate reaction. The arm hanging from the side of the pilot’s chair is slender and familiar, and the blood-caked hair dangling down to tickle her fingers is stiff and dirty. Slowly, he moves up to the chair. If she’s sleeping, he doesn’t want to wake her quite yet, and if she’s not, he doesn’t think he’s ready to know that quite yet, either.

She’s a sight. The grafts on her legs shine through her tattered armor, telling him her brain function is trying so hard to heal whatever damage she sustained that the adrium isn’t taking on the guise she usually gives it. There are about four sections of her body armor, especially on the left-hand side of her midsection, that are in shreds.

“Hound,” he mutters, knowing instantly she was the one stuck fighting the beast and suddenly the lieutenant’s dismissal makes far too much sense.

Dom can still hear Jeffries fiddling around with bandages and pain salves behind him, and he kneels next to Sai for a moment. She’s alive. From the rise and fall of her chest, she is most definitely alive. The relief Dom feels is something he doesn’t quite know how to deal with.

He touches her head and pulls the longer strands of hair away from it, wincing at the way some of it is embedded in a few fresh scabs on her face. That’s not going to be pretty. Even if she manages to heal herself, some of that scarring will probably remain.

Her eyes flicker open, and he tenses, waiting. It takes a couple of seconds for her to focus on his face, and her smile is so full of relief that the tension flees from his body.

“Dom,” she croaks out, her hand gently gripping his forearm, her voice raspy and dry. “They okay?”

Her first thought is for the others, and that’s when Dom realizes just what the light was. Even though it shouldn’t be possible, even though he has no idea how she managed to direct it, that pulsing fire was her.

“Shh,” he says and scoops her up in his arms without any effort. She leans in, warm against his chest, comfortable...right. “Jeffries is here. Mason and Walstein are going to be fine, and I’m pretty sure your botched first aid is helped them survive so far. On the bright side, you didn’t get burned to a crisp by the sun.” He can’t help the chatter; it’s a nervous reaction. She almost died, and then nothing would have been okay, nothing would have been right. Not ever again. Her weight in his arms soothes and keeps the darkness at bay—so much that he doesn’t want to put her down, doesn’t want to let her go ever again.

“You really have to stop doing this almost-dying thing, you know,” he jokes, trying to drown out his own desperation, and looks down to realize she’s fallen back asleep. He lays her down in
Mele’s
passenger seat and sets about attaching the tow to Mason’s transport. By the time he’s rigged the exhausts to expel enough air to obscure their tracks, Jeffries needs his help getting the other two back to
Mele’s
cabin.

It’s extremely crowded once everyone is onboard, but overall Dom is fairly happy with the progress. Jeffries examines Sai and frowns.

“You shouldn’t have moved her before I got to look at her. She has some fractured ribs and bad blood loss, not to mention something wrong with her head at the moment. Major reactionary headache.”

Dom nods. “Sorry, we had to get out of there. Damascus will be scouring the area shortly, if they haven’t started already. If we don’t get back soon, we not only run the risk of losing three people, we also run the risk of them picking up our heat signatures and thereby losing whole Mobiles.”

And the litany repeats in his head—that no matter what, he will never risk losing Sai again.

Dom stands in Mathur’s kitchen while his creator digests the information. Compact and well-appointed, it has the necessary amenities. His eyes stray over the stainless surfaces and clinical feel. Even here, Mathur’s touch is obvious.

“But that is not possible, Dom.” The old man sips a cup of tea and eyes him with complete disbelief.

“Then you tell me what happened.” Dom crosses his arms and waits.

Mathur chuckles. “Sadly, I have no clue, but I do not believe it is possible to recreate the original burst a gift causes when it awakens, not to mention channeling that much power into one concentrated and aimed effort. Really, Dom, if I did not know better, I would say you were going senile on me.”

“There’s no other explanation.”

“But there may be. Let Mason and Walstein get through their operations and recovery and we can begin asking them. In the meantime, help Gregory up in navigation plot the best possible paths we can take to avoid the Damascus and throw them off so we are not sitting ducks.” Mathur turns back to his small stove, white hair swaying gently with the flow of filtered air, an obvious dismissal.

“Not yet,” Dom mumbles as he walks out of the room, frustrated at Mathur’s lack of urgency. And then it strikes him—his mentor, creator, whatever else he is, is on the verge of giving up. Just short of leaving the corridor, he turns around and enters the apartment again to find the old man with his head buried in his hands, tears running down his face as he looks up, startled.

“You can’t give up, Mathur. People depend on you to have the answers for them.”

“But I do not. I never expected this as a level of retaliation. In my head, they would slowly lose the hold they had as they lost the control over their laboratory subjects, and the rest of the population would start to truly realize the broadcast they saw was real.” He shakes his head and stands up. His eyes are more sunken than usual, and his movements somewhat stilted.

“Do not mind me. These are just the silly ramblings of a tired old man, Dom. Do you know...” He pauses and closes his eyes for just a moment. “Do you know what the Exiled were when I came here?”

“They were...the Exiled?” Dom asks, not quite understanding.

“Yes,” Mathur chuckles. “They were definitely that, but they were also a broken group of people. The war left them astounded, immobile, lacking in hope. The GNW had not only turned an army of machines against them, an army that was supposed to protect people, but they had also had troops infuse Shine into their waterways and food sources. For three weeks, none of the Exiled’s psionics had abilities that were remotely useable. Many of them were picked off by the Damascus, hence the weakened line of abilities we see among them now.”

He pushes himself back on the couch and looks up at Dom. “We have had many people escape the cities for a better life among the Exiled, even before I started the project to build these Mobiles. Do you know how little we actually need money? These did not cost us anything more than willing people who wanted a better way of life and were willing to put in the hard labor necessary. The resources, the planning, the technology—all of this was will power.” He gestures vaguely around them.

“So much of what you’ve done is a fantastic achievement. That’s why you can’t let them see you down, Mathur, do you understand? You have to be strong for all these people who depend on you.” Tact has never been Dom’s strong point, and he hopes that, for once, his knowledge of people doesn’t fail his intentions.

“Such kind words. You know, I always hoped but never thought you would exhibit the range of emotions you can. Anger, maybe, but not the rest.” He sighs and chuckles a little. “But I digress again. These people deserve more than an ending at the hands of the Damascus, and I need your help with the other dominos to make that a possibility. They are all I can think of that will not fall easily.”

“If Sai’s ability to tap into...whatever she tapped into can be replicated, then don’t you think everyone’s can? I know it’s not an answer, but it can perhaps become one of the solutions.” The desperation inside him is clawing to get out through his eyes or let the darkness take control of him. Dom fights it, some of his turmoil leaking into the words.

Mathur shakes his head. “We are not going to know anything until they wake up. Go help Gregory, and I will fetch you as soon as any of them are awake.”

Dom resists the urge to growl at his maker and leaves the room.

The following morning brings almost permanent frustration.

“I don’t work like that, Mathur,” Dom says for what seems like the twentieth time in as many minutes. The old man ignores him and continues to tinker just beneath the hairline of the prone domino in front of him.

“I made you. I do think that I know what it is I do.” Mathur’s own repetition has become clipped, his impatience shining through.

“Well, I am me, so you know...” Dom leaves it hanging and is surprised by a slight chuckle from Mathur.

“Sai has definitely influenced you. In a good way.” But he still goes back to doing exactly the opposite of Dom’s suggestion. Dom’s thoughts are cut short when Iria interrupts them, out of breath as she hangs onto the doorframe.

“They’re awake,” she says as she gulps down air. “Just Mason and Walstein, not Sai,” she adds when Dom smiles. He resists the urge to scowl and heads to the hospital wing with Mathur.

“You look like crap,” he says to Mason and nods at Walstein, not entirely sure of the young man’s experiences or loyalties.

Mason tries to smile, only to cringe as his jaw is still healing. His skin appears loose, like he no longer fits into it, and the shadows under his eyes are deeper. He appears to be worse than when they picked him up.

“Stephen said you have questions.” The words come out partially slurred, obscured by the drugs pumping into his system through the small dispenser attached to his arm.

“How are you not dead?”

“Sai.” Mason shrugs, even though it’s obvious it causes him pain. “She screamed and this white, hot light exploded around her, catapulted into the lieutenant who was about to kill Wally over there. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“You are serious?” Mathur steps out from behind Dom. “You are really serious?”

Mason nods.

“Damn it. Where is Bastian when we need him?” Mathur flops into one of the chairs near the bed.

“I don’t follow.” Dom crosses his arms and regards the older man with curiosity. “How on earth could Bastian make this better?”

Mathur scowls. “Not make it better, but train Sai, get her to understand what it is she did and perhaps how others can accomplish the same sort of thing. There is no telling how far this could go if given the chance. We could have a whole new weapon on our hands.”

“And why Bastian? I mean, he’s good at what he does, but...” Dom shrugs.

“You’ve spent all this time with my brother and you haven’t realized it yet?” Mason laughs and then coughs, clutching his side. He sighs in a breath, and Dom almost asks him to do it again, sure he heard something rattle.

“He’s extremely intelligent and knows...” The light dawns on Dom. “You mean he wasn’t just in charge of the school because of his strength and striking good looks?”

“Exactly.” Mathur sighs. “This bit of information gives us some level of hope. Not much, mind you, but some at least. It’s a good thing overall, but we can’t afford to have her fall into a coma or faint every time she overexerts herself. It’s not just inconvenient—it could be downright dangerous. At this rate, she’ll sleep until tonight.”