Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (49 page)

The young steersman hadn't flinched at the violence done to him. Such a lack of response wasn't uncommon; especially among victims of psychological trauma, which Deim clearly was. Not so easily dismissed was the wicked gleam in his eyes as he held up the injured extremity—bent crooked as a Nesshin trader—and meticulously forced each bone back into place with an audible pop. The vicious grin never left the steersman's face as he quietly performed a procedure that often reduced hardened professionals to wailing children.

As if on cue, the feedback loop sounded once more.

Teg couldn't remember leaving Deim's quarters, but he was standing out in the hall when the noise subsided. He started back toward the captain's mess but decided against it. As far as Teg was concerned, nothing he'd just seen had ever happened.
You can mind your own damned steersman,
he thought as his hurrying feet sought the lounge with its spirits that no longer brought peace.

Jaren approached the infirmary as though entering a lion’s den. Nakvin had made the sick ward her private domain, devoting all her time to Elena’s care. He’d acquired a healthy fear of the Steersman’s anger during their long association. The strife between them was more volatile for remaining unspoken, and now he meant to break that silence for a reason that would surely gall her. So be it. He was captain of the
Exodus
. Nakvin was his best pilot, and he would order her as duty required.

Jaren found Elena’s door open; the girl lying motionless in bed. He sensed at once that something was wrong. In his experience, a hospital room occupied by a gravely ill patient beeped, hissed, and whirred with life-sustaining machinery. Here, the quiet was deafening.

He didn't see Nakvin at first, but as Jaren passed the threshold he glimpsed her standing against the left wall. Bathed in the shadows of the room, her white robes gave her a ghostly look. She faced the bed, yet stared at the ceiling. The woman wore such a desolate expression that Jaren almost forgot his wounded pride, but he stifled the urge to comfort her.

“I'm taking the
Shibboleth
to meet Randolph,” he said. “I need you to fly it.”

Nakvin closed her eyes and sighed. “Take Deim.”

“We both know he can't be trusted,” Jaren said.

“I don't want to do this anymore,” Nakvin said. “I don't care about the Guild or this ship. I just want everyone to leave us alone.”

“You can't mean that,” said Jaren. “The Guild kept you like a prisoner for years, and they've hunted you every day since.”

Nakvin gave Jaren a weary look. “Yes I can. There's pain enough in this sad, tired world. I won’t bring any more into it.”

Jaren kept his face calm out of sheer will. He'd heard that parenthood changed people, but he never thought his closest ally would give in to such craven sentimentalism. “How can you be sure she's your daughter?”

For an instant, the silver fire kindled in Nakvin's eyes again, but the spark quickly died, leaving her more haggard than before. “She told me.”

Jaren swept his arm toward the bed. “You're basing this on her word? I’d have noticed if you were pregnant sixteen years ago.”

“Would you?” Nakvin asked. “Base it on
my
word. Elena saved my life; all our lives. But the minute she needs your help, you disappear.”

The accusation should have rolled off Jaren’s back, but it struck him like a slap to the face. “What can I do?” he asked.

Nakvin sighed and moved to the bed. “I don't understand Elena's physiology. The Arcana Divines made her, so only Braun or Vernon can tell me what's wrong with her.”

Jaren positioned himself across the bed from Nakvin. “Dilar said his ship was the only other one to escape Bifron. If that's true, then Vernon and Braun are either dead or in prison.”

“Then ask Randolph what happened to them.”

Jaren squeezed his eyes shut and hissed through clenched teeth. Instead of dispelling Nakvin’s hopeless fantasy, he’d only reinforced it. “Will you fly me to the meeting if I do?”

Nakvin's desolate expression became a cautious smile. She knelt and clasped Elena’s pale hands in her own. “I’ll do anything to help her.”

“We leave tomorrow at noon,” Jaren said on his way out.

The dreadnaught resembled an oil refinery built atop a long grey box. Its stately bulk filled Jaren’s view as the
Shibboleth
approached the opening that split the huge vessel's bow like a grimace. Having received clearance to land from the spindly conning tower jutting upward from the stern, the privateer touched down inside the vast hangar.

Jaren ordered Nakvin to stay with the
Shibboleth
while he and Trand disembarked. The young Freeholder had begged to join him, and Jaren had agreed out of necessity. Deim wasn’t fit for polite company, and Teg was needed on the
Exodus
to keep order.

Dilar met the pirate and the dead man and gave them a brief tour of the
Gambler's Fallacy
. Repairs were still underway, making several sections off limits. Still, the dreadnaught was among the largest of ether-runners, and Jaren admitted himself impressed.

The tour ended in the command level briefing room. Jaren noted that the constant sounds and scents of construction continued into the ship's higher decks. He wasn't surprised, considering the hammering that the
Serapis
had given the dreadnaught.

“Gentleman,” Dilar said, gesturing toward a uniformed man seated at the conference table, “Allow me to introduce Captain Cly Randolph.”

Randolph received his guests warmly. Balding with a mossy auburn beard and a muddled Kethan accent, this captain was Craighan’s polar opposite, recommending him favorably in Jaren's book. Hearty handshakes were exchanged along with brief introductions. Then the four men took their seats and set to business.

Randolph dove into a discussion of the current political landscape. “The Guild made Mithgar an example that the other Cards can’t ignore,” he said, “but a major victory might persuade one of them to join us.”

“Sorry to be blunt,” Jaren said, “but you won’t be winning any fights for a while.”

“That’s where you come in,” said Randolph. “Even the
Exodus
can’t fight the Guild fleet alone, but it’s a perfect rallying point for the exiles.”

Jaren paused before naming the behemoth in the room. “You’ve read Dilar’s report,” he stated more than asked.

Randolph shared a knowing look with his first officer. “If you’re wondering whether I’ve been briefed on your maiden voyage,” he said, “I know about the mutiny and the deaths of my fellow officers.”

Jaren raised a hand in protest, but Randolph cut him off.

“Do I like it? Of course not. Was Stochman mostly to blame? Almost certainly. Did isolation and stress impair everyone’s judgment? I think so.”

“Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical,” Jaren said.

“Craighan and Stochman never considered your viewpoint,” Randolph said. “I know what it’s like to be hunted, so I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. We need your ship, and you need our manpower.”

Jaren pondered the offer. Relentless persecution had obviously made Randolph desperate. As a result, he was forced to entertain options that he never would’ve considered otherwise.

“These are my terms,” Jaren said. “First, official recognition of my command of the
Exodus
. That means any future mutiny attempts will be dealt with as I see fit.”

“I wouldn’t let you tell me how to run my command,” Randolph said. “I sure as hell won’t tell you how to run yours.”

Dilar leaned toward his captain. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked. Randolph motioned him to silence.

“Second,” Jaren continued, “if you have any information about the two Exodus Project heads, the faster you turn it over, the better it’ll reflect on you.”

“What are their names?” asked Randolph.

“Vernon and Braun.”

Randolph snorted and shook his head. “You
would
bring up those two.”

“Have you seen them since Bifron?” Jaren asked.

The dreadnaught captain leaned back in his chair. “We thought we were home free once we cleared the debris field. Then we ran into a Guild corvette waiting in the wings. It must’ve been patrolling for fleeing ships, because it already had one grappled:
yours
.”

Jaren's mouth tightened. He'd wondered how Dilar had come by the
Shibboleth
.

“The corvette's crew decided they didn't want to tangle with a dreadnaught,” Randolph said. “Surprise was on our side. If they'd taken the time to look, they'd have seen we weren’t a threat. As it happened, they dropped their catch and ran for the ether.”

Randolph paused, clearly seeking a tactful way to confess his theft. “We had massive casualties, so I sent a boarding party over for medical supplies. The Guild had taken the crew, but as luck would have it they missed one.”

“Who was it?” Jaren asked.

“We found a fat, twitchy fellow hiding in a torpedo tube. I have no idea how he squeezed himself in there. The man was sweating like a pig when we pulled him out. He gave the name Braun when we debriefed him, but not much else.”

“Where is he now?”

Randolph rubbed his scruffy chin. “We found him dead of a gunshot wound the next day; self-inflicted, the ship's surgeon said. Braun was confined to his cabin. We never did find out where the gun came from.”

Jaren sighed in defeat. Then he recalled a conspicuous detail of Randolph's story. “You said the Guild had searched the
Shibboleth
by the time you got there, and that Braun was the only one left on board. But you recognized Vernon's name when I dropped it. Did Braun mention him in questioning?”

Randolph shook his head. “Not then, but he was always muttering to himself. That was why I confined him to quarters. During the suicide inquest, the guards on Braun’s detail repeated some of the things he’d said. Vernon's name, for one.”

“Did Braun say what happened to him?”

Randolph’s hand gesture conveyed his uncertainty. “The guards’ memories were fuzzy, and Braun's ramblings were garbled to begin with, but the witnesses were pretty sure that this Vernon was on the
Shibboleth
with him.”

Jaren saw the pieces falling into place. “Did you get the corvette’s name?”

“Come to think of it, we did. It was the
Persis
out of Ostrith.”

Jaren rose. “Thanks for your time,” he said, giving Randolph’s hand a curt shake. He was heading for the door when Trand spoke up.

“Beg your pardon, captain,” the Freeholder said, “but I thought I might stay on a while.” His beady eyes darted to Randolph. “With Captain Randolph's kind permission, of course.”

“The
Exodus
is short-handed enough,” said Jaren. “Why should I let you go?”

“If you want Captain Randolph’s men,” said Trand, “it’s only fair to lend him one of yours. Besides, it’s been ages since I left Mithgar. A man gets to missing his own.”

“Understandable,” Jaren said. “It’s up to Captain Randolph.”

Randolph and Dilar cast skeptical looks at the dead man. “Does he know his way around an ether-runner?” the dreadnaught captain asked.

“I can vouch for his repair work,” Jaren said.
And having a set of eyes here can’t hurt.

“All right,” Randolph said. “He can stay as long as he knows that this is a fighting ship; not a pleasure cruiser.”

Trand's youthful face beamed with excitement.

Randolph looked to Dilar. “Take him down to Chief Rekt and get him on a work detail. Everybody pulls his own weight here.”

Dilar led Trand from the room, and Jaren saw himself out. He strode briskly back to the
Shibboleth
, eager to tell Nakvin what he'd learned.

The old man looked up from the papers stacked on the clay table beside his afternoon tea and studied the redheaded woman he never could have seen before. Nakvin favored him with a smile and wondered if Eldrid’s disguise would fool a man who’d known her all her life.

“Mater Narr, your daughter has arrived from Salorien,” Nakvin’s Enforcer escort announced. The Master’s brow creased—as it should have, since he was childless.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, dad,” Nakvin said in her best Kethan accent. “When I heard you were staying on Tharis, I thought I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”